The crowd around them had grown silent. Even the ambient chatter of the exhibition hall seemed to fade.
Beatrice's face went from flushed to white. "How dare you?—"
"How dare I what?" Veronica took a step forward, and Anthea instinctively moved to intervene—but something in her sister's expression stopped her. "How dare I speak the truth? How dare I refuse to make the same mistakes you made?"
"I made no mistakes," Beatrice said, but her voice shook slightly. "I did what was necessary. What any sensible woman would do."
"You married a man you did not love because you thought his brother would die and make you a viscountess," Veronica said, each word precise and cutting. "And when that did not happen, you spent the rest of his life making him miserable. Then you married Anthea's father for his money, and you made him miserable too. I will not do the same. I will not sacrifice my happiness for your idea of respectability."
"You ungrateful?—"
"I am not ungrateful," Veronica said, and her voice was steady now, certain. "I am grateful for the life you gave me. For the education, the opportunities, everything. But I am also twenty-three years old, and this is my life. My future. And no one but me should be in charge of it."
The words hung in the air like a declaration of independence.
Anthea felt her throat tighten with something that might have been pride or might have been tears or might have been both. This was her sister—shy, gentle Veronica—standing up to the woman who had controlled and manipulated her entire life.
"You will regret this," Beatrice said, her voice venomous. "When you are living in some cramped house with screaming children and not enough money for a decent dress, you will remember this moment. You will remember that you had the chance for better and threw it away for love." She said the last word with such contempt it might as well have been a curse.
"Perhaps I will," Veronica said. "But it will be my regret. My choice. My life. Not yours."
Beatrice opened her mouth, then closed it. Looked at Anthea with something that might have been accusation or might have been defeat.
"You have poisoned them against me," she said finally. "Turned my own daughters into ungrateful rebels who think they know better than their elders."
"I have shown them that they have choices," Anthea said quietly. "That is all. What they do with those choices is entirely up to them."
"Then I wash my hands of it," Beatrice said, drawing herself up with wounded dignity. "When this ends in disaster—and it will—do not come crying to me. You wanted the burden of their futures? You have it. And I hope you choke on it."
She swept away with all the dramatic flair of a woman who had just delivered what she believed to be a devastating exit line.
Anthea watched her go, then turned to find half the flower show staring at them with poorly concealed fascination.
Wonderful. This would be the talk of every drawing room in London by evening.
"I am sorry," Veronica said, her earlier confidence crumbling slightly. "I did not mean to cause a scene. I just—I could not let her keep speaking to you like that. To us like that."
"Do not apologize," Anthea said firmly, pulling both sisters close. "You were magnificent."
"I was terrified," Veronica admitted. "My hands are still shaking."
"Bravery is not the absence of fear," Anthea said. "It is acting despite it. And you, my dear sister, were extraordinarily brave."
"She meant what she said," Poppy said quietly. "About washing her hands of us. About not helping if things go wrong."
"Good," Anthea said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. "We do not need her help. We have each other. And Gregory. And friends who actually care about our happiness rather than our social standing."
"Still," Poppy said, and there was something thoughtful in her expression. "It must be strange. To finally cut ties with one's mother, even a cruel one."
"It is what it is," Veronica said, but her voice was steadier now. "And I meant what I said. This is my life. My choice. If she cannot accept that, then—" She stopped, shook her head. "Then that is her loss, not mine."
Anthea squeezed her sister's hand. "When did you become so wise?"
"When I watched you stand up to her again and again," Veronica said softly. "When I saw you refuse to let her control you anymore. When I realized that being kind did not mean being weak. You taught me that, Anthea. You and Gregory both."
They resumed their walk through the exhibition, though the flowers seemed less impressive now and the crowd's whispers followed them like shadows.
"Do you think she will cause trouble?" Poppy asked as they examined a display of hothouse orchids. "Try to ruin the wedding somehow?"
