Chapter Thirty-One
They arrived back in London near midnight, exhausted and travel-worn.
Poppy and Henry were shown to guest chambers with explicit instructions to rest and not attempt any further dramatic gestures. Sybil and Hugo departed for their own home with promises to return in the morning to help with wedding preparations.
And then it was just Anthea and Gregory, standing in the entrance hall of their townhouse, the silence between them heavy as stone.
"You should get some rest," Gregory said quietly. "It has been a long day."
"Yes," Anthea agreed. But she made no move toward the stairs.
Gregory studied her face in the dim candlelight. "Anthea?—"
"Good night," she said quickly, and fled up the stairs before he could say anything more.
In her chambers, she dismissed her maid with a mumbled excuse about being too tired for help. Undressed herself mechanically, each layer of clothing feeling like armor she was shedding without any protection underneath.
She climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to claim her.
It did not come.
Instead, her mind replayed the day's events in an endless loop. Poppy's letter. The desperate chase. Gregory solving everything while she stood useless and frozen. The way her sister had looked at her with something uncomfortably close to pity.
She had failed. Spectacularly, publicly, undeniably failed.
And tomorrow she would have to wake up and pretend everything was fine. She would have to help plan Poppy's wedding while knowing she had driven her sister to nearly ruin herself. Would have to smile and act like a competent duchess when she had proven herself anything but.
A soft knock came at the connecting door.
Anthea closed her eyes. "I am trying to sleep."
"No, you are not," Gregory's voice came through the wood. "You are lying there torturing yourself. I can practically hear it from my room."
"Go away, Gregory."
"I will not."
The door opened. Gregory entered, still fully dressed, his expression determined.
"We need to talk," he said.
"There is nothing to discuss," Anthea replied, not looking at him. "Everything is resolved. Poppy is safe. We should both rest."
"Everything is not resolved," Gregory said. He moved to sit on the edge of her bed, close enough that she could feel the mattress dip under his weight. "Because my wife is pulling away from me and I do not know how to reach her."
"I am not pulling away," Anthea said automatically.
"You are." His voice was gentle but implacable. "You have been pulling away since we found that letter. Building walls, shutting me out, refusing comfort. And I have been patient, thinking you needed time. But we are home now. Everything is settled. And you are still—" He stopped, seeming to search for words. "You are still gone. And I need to know why."
Anthea felt her throat tighten. "I told you why. I failed."
"No," Gregory said. "You told me you think you failed. But that is not the same thing. And I do not believe that is what this is really about."
"What else would it be about?" Anthea demanded, finally turning to look at him.
"I think," Gregory said carefully, "this is about you looking for reasons to punish yourself. To prove you do not deserve happiness. To fulfill Beatrice's prophecy about your inevitable failure."
The words struck too close to truth.
