"You did not drive her to anything," Gregory said firmly. "She made her own choice based on her own fears about Beatrice. That has nothing to do with?—"
"It has everything to do with me," Anthea said. Her voice was rising despite her efforts to remain calm. "If I had been paying attention, I would have noticed she was frightened. Would have realized she was planning something desperate. Would have provided reassurance before she felt running away was her only option."
"You cannot watch her every moment," Gregory argued. "You cannot anticipate every fear or concern?—"
"I should have tried," Anthea said. "I should have been focused on my responsibilities instead of—" She stopped, unable to finish.
Instead of falling in love. Instead of being happy. Instead of thinking about herself for once.
"Instead of what?" Gregory prompted, his expression darkening. "Instead of allowing yourself to be happy? Instead of having a life of your own?"
"I had responsibilities," Anthea said stubbornly.
"You are a person, not a martyr," Gregory countered. "You are allowed to have your own desires, your own happiness. That does not make you a bad guardian."
"Clearly it does," Anthea said bitterly. "Because the moment I stopped watching constantly, everything fell apart."
Gregory looked at her for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet.
"Is this about Poppy? Or is this about you needing to punish yourself for daring to be happy?"
The question struck too close to home.
Anthea turned back to the window. "I do not wish to discuss this further."
"Anthea—"
"Please," she said, and hated how her voice broke. "Just... please. Not now."
She felt Gregory retreat. Felt the careful distance he put between them—not physical distance, they were still sitting on the same bench, but emotional distance. The walls going back up on both sides.
The carriage rolled on through the gathering darkness.
Anthea kept her gaze fixed on the window, on her own reflection ghosted in the glass. She looked tired. Defeated.
Like someone who had finally proven Beatrice right about everything.
Behind her, she could feel Gregory's concerned gaze. Could sense his desire to comfort, to reach out, to somehow fix what was breaking between them.
But she could not accept it. Could not let him convince her that this was not her fault when she knew—with cold, crushing certainty—that it was.
She had failed. Failed her sister, failed her responsibilities, failed everyone who had trusted her to be better.
And no amount of talking would change that fundamental truth.
The miles passed. The sun set completely, leaving only darkness outside the carriage windows.
And Anthea sat silent and still, wrapped in her own inadequacy, unable to accept the comfort being offered.
Unable to forgive herself for proving Beatrice right.
Unable to see any path forward that did not involve admitting she was exactly as incompetent as her stepmother had always claimed.
Everything had been resolved. Poppy would have her proper wedding. Henry's sisters would be protected. Beatrice would be exiled to Bath.
Everyone would be fine.
Except Anthea, who sat in the darkness with her husband beside her, feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her life.
