"Oh really?" Beatrice moved closer, her eyes glittering with malice. "How convenient that you just happened to be in that music room. That you just happened to be positioned exactly where I would find you. That you just happened to be partnered with him at the garden party?—"
"Lady Pemberton assigned the partners for Pall Mall, and you know it!"
"What I know," Beatrice said, her voice dropping to something soft and venomous, "is that you are trying to steal what should rightfully belong to my daughters. You surely don't believe I would let you become a Duchess instead of one of my own! They come from an illustrious bloodline, one that would be advantageous to a duke and his heirs."
The words stung, but Anthea kept her chin raised. "The Duke does not seem to care about bloodlines."
"Beatrice's smile was cruel. "Let me remind you of a few facts, my dear. You came from nothing. Your mother was the daughter of a mere Baron, your father a Baron himself with no fortune to speak of. And you—" She paused, letting the silence stretch. "You are nothing."
The words hit over and over.
Anthea felt the air leave her lungs, felt something inside her crack and splinter. She had heard variations of this sentiment throughout the years since Beatrice married her father—ten long years of being told she was worthless—but hearing it stated so baldly, so certainly, made it somehow worse.?
"You have nothing to offer a duke," Beatrice continued, clearly warming to her subject. "No connections, no fortune, no particular beauty or accomplishment. The only reason he is interested at all is because circumstance forced his hand. And even that would not have been necessary if you had simply stayed out of the way as you ought to have done."
Anthea's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I was protecting Poppy."
"Poppy did not need protecting. She needed to do her duty to this family." Beatrice moved even closer, invading Anthea's space in a way that felt like an attack. "But you could not bear that, could you? Could not bear to see one of my daughters succeed where you had failed so spectacularly. So you interfered. And now you dare to act as though you deserve the rewards of that interference?"
"Get out," Anthea whispered.
"This is my house," Beatrice reminded her coldly. "Or have you forgotten that as well? Your father may have left it to you in his will, but you are still unmarried, still dependent on my goodwill to manage it. Without me, you would have nothing. You would be nothing."
"I said get out." Anthea's voice rose, stronger now, fueled by fury rather than pain. "Out of my sight. Now."
For a moment, they stared at each other. Then Beatrice smiled, cold and triumphant.
"Run to your room, little girl. Hide away as you always do. But remember—the Duke will not wait forever. And when he realizes what you truly are, he will move on. Men always do."
She swept from the room, leaving Anthea standing alone, shaking with rage and hurt and something uncomfortably close to despair.
"A plague upon humanity?" Anthea repeated, and despite everything that had happened that day, she felt her lips twitch. "That seems excessive."
"Excessive?" Sybil set down her teacup with enough force to rattle the saucer. They sat in Sybil's private sitting room, whereAnthea had fled within the hour of her confrontation with Beatrice. "That woman told you that you are nothing. Nothing, Anthea! If anything, I am being too kind. She deserves to be exiled to a deserted island. With terrible weather. And no servants."
"And presumably no tea?"
"Absolutely no tea. She can drink rainwater and contemplate her sins." Sybil's fierce expression softened slightly. "Are you all right? Truly?"
Anthea wrapped her hands around her own teacup, letting its warmth seep into her cold fingers. "I do not know. Part of me wants to laugh at how ridiculous she is. Another part wants to cry. And the largest part simply feels... tired."
"Tired of what?"
"Everything. Trying to protect my sisters. Trying to manage Beatrice. Trying to figure out what I want versus what everyone else expects of me." Anthea stared into her tea. "Do you know what the worst part is? She is partly right. My father did marry her because of me. He needed someone to raise me, and she thought she was getting a better match than she did, and?—"
"Stop," Sybil interrupted firmly. "We are not doing this."
"But Sybil?"
"We are not taking responsibility for every adult's poor choices simply because you happened to exist." Sybil leaned forward, her dark eyes intent. "Your father chose to remarry. Beatrice chose to accept him. Those were their decisions, not yours. You were eight years old, Anthea. A child does not ruin lives simply by existing."
"Beatrice seems to think otherwise."
"Beatrice is a bitter woman who resents her own disappointments and has decided to blame you for them rather than examining her own choices." Sybil's voice gentled. "But that is her failure, darling. Not yours."
Anthea wanted to believe her. Wanted to shed the guilt she had carried for so long like an ill-fitting cloak. But it clung to her, stubborn and familiar.
"I still feel responsible for Poppy and Veronica growing up with a mother who—" She stopped, throat tight.
