"She can try," Anthea said. "But she has no power anymore. No leverage. Gregory's rank protects us, and Society has seen her true colors now. Most people will dismiss her objections as the ravings of a bitter woman who cannot accept that her daughters chose love over status."
"Most people," Poppy repeated. "But not all."
"Not all," Anthea conceded. "There will always be those who agree with her. Who think we should have married for money and position rather than affection. But those people are not worth concerning ourselves with."
They completed their circuit of the exhibition in relative peace, though Anthea could feel eyes following them, could hear the whispered speculation. By tomorrow, the confrontation would be embellished and exaggerated until it bore little resemblance to what had actually happened.
Such was the nature of Society.
As they waited for their carriage, Veronica touched Anthea's arm.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For standing beside me. For being willing to defend me. Even though I ended up defending myself."
"You did not need me," Anthea said with a smile. "You were perfectly capable of handling her on your own."
"Perhaps," Veronica allowed. "But it was easier knowing you were there. Knowing that if I faltered, you would catch me."
"Always," Anthea promised.
The carriage arrived, and they climbed inside. As it pulled away from the exhibition hall, Anthea looked back at the building where her stepmother had made one final attempt to control her daughters' lives.
And failed.
Failed because Veronica had found her voice. Had claimed her right to choose her own future. Had stood up to the woman who had spent years making her feel small and uncertain and unworthy of making her own decisions.
Anthea felt something settle in her chest—pride mixed with hope mixed with the satisfaction of watching someone she loved grow into their own strength.
"You know," Poppy said thoughtfully, breaking the comfortable silence, "I rather enjoyed that."
"Enjoyed what?" Veronica asked. "Being publicly humiliated?"
"No," Poppy said. "Watching you tell Mother exactly what she needed to hear. Watching you claim your own life." She paused, then added with a small smile, "It was rather inspiring, actually. Made me think about what I would say if she tried the same with me."
"She will try," Anthea warned. "When you and Mr. Ashford make things official. When she discovers you are courting. She will object, will try to find fault, will attempt to manipulate you into doubting yourself."
"Let her try," Poppy said, and there was something fierce in her voice that Anthea had not heard before. "I know what I want. And I know that my happiness matters more than her approval."
Anthea looked at her youngest sister—vivacious, opinionated Poppy who had always been confident but was now showing signs of genuine conviction—and felt that same pride bloom warm in her chest.
Her sisters were going to be fine.
Better than fine.
They were going to be happy.
And that, Anthea reflected as the carriage rolled through London's streets toward home, was worth every moment of confrontation with Beatrice. Worth every whispered scandal, every raised eyebrow, every judgment from people who valued position over love.
Her sisters would choose their own futures. They would love freely and completely. They would never have to wonder what might have been if only they had been brave enough to reach for what they wanted.
And if Beatrice could not accept that—if she chose bitterness and control over her daughters' happiness—then that was her tragedy.
Not theirs.
Never theirs.
That evening, Anthea recounted the confrontation to Gregory over dinner. He listened with his usual attentiveness, his expression growing darker with each detail.
"She said what?" he demanded when Anthea repeated Beatrice's claim about being consulted.
