Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Royal Horticultural Society’s Spring flower show was considered one of the season's premier events—an opportunity for London's elite to admire exotic blooms while conducting the real business of gossip and social maneuvering.
Anthea had initially considered declining the invitation. Between the house party's success and Veronica's upcoming wedding, her schedule was already overwhelming. But Veronica had wanted to go, had practically begged with those soft eyes that Anthea could never quite refuse, and so here they were.
The exhibition hall smelled of earth and flowers and too many competing perfumes.
Anthea navigated through the crowds with practiced ease, Veronica on one arm and Poppy on the other, admiring displays of roses and orchids while mentally cataloging which matrons to approach about wedding invitations.
"Oh, look at those lilies," Veronica breathed, stopping before a display of white blooms so perfect they looked almost unreal. "Mr. Hartley would love to sketch these. The way the light catches the petals—"
"Everything reminds you of him now," Poppy teased, but her tone was affectionate. "It is sickeningly romantic."
"You are simply jealous," Veronica said, smiling.
"Perhaps a little," Poppy admitted. Then, more quietly, "Though I confess, Mr. Ashford has been very attentive in his correspondence. His last letter was quite—"
"Veronica Hillington."
The voice cut through the pleasant chatter like a blade.
Anthea's spine stiffened. She knew that tone—cold, imperious, vibrating with barely contained fury.
Beatrice.
She turned slowly, positioning herself between her stepmother and her sisters with instinctive protectiveness.
Beatrice stood three paces away, resplendent in burgundy silk that probably cost more than she could afford, her face a mask of aristocratic disdain that did not quite hide the rage burning in her eyes.
"Mrs. Croft," Anthea said, her voice carefully neutral. "What a surprise to see you here."
"Is it?" Beatrice's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "When my daughter is the talk of the ton? When I discover through gossip—gossip, Anthea—that Veronica has accepted a proposal from a gentleman I have never even met?"
Several nearby guests had stopped pretending to admire the flowers. Anthea could feel their attention like insects crawling across her skin.
"Perhaps we should discuss this privately," Anthea said quietly.
"Why?" Beatrice's voice rose just enough to carry. "So you can continue making decisions about my daughters without consulting me? So you can ruin their prospects behind my back?"
"Ruin?" Anthea felt her jaw tighten. "Mr. Hartley is a respectable gentleman with a good income and excellent character. Hardly ruinous."
"He is an artist," Beatrice spat the word like a curse. "A gentleman, yes, but with no title, no significant property, no connections worth mentioning. You were supposed to improve their prospects, not settle them with the first pleasant man who showed interest!"
"Mr. Hartley is more than pleasant," Veronica said, her voice trembling slightly but determined. "He is kind and thoughtful and—"
"Quiet," Beatrice snapped without looking at her. "I am speaking to your sister."
The casual dismissal—the way Beatrice refused even to acknowledge Veronica's right to speak about her own future—ignited something hot and familiar in Anthea's chest.
"Do not speak to her like that," Anthea said, her voice going cold in the way that usually preceded her most devastating social strikes.
"I will speak to my own daughter however I please," Beatrice countered. "You may have bought yourself a title, Anthea, but you do not have the right to make decisions about their futures without my consent."
"Your consent?" Anthea's laugh was sharp and humorless. "You gave up the right to make decisions about their futures when you agreed to let me sponsor them. When you took my money for your house and your comfort in exchange for letting them go."
Beatrice's face flushed. "I agreed to let you sponsor them socially. To introduce them to suitable gentlemen. Not to marry them off to second-rate artists who cannot provide for them properly!"
"Mr. Hartley can provide perfectly well," Anthea said. "He has a comfortable income, a house in town, and genuine affection for Veronica. Which is more than can be said for most of the matches you attempted to force on them."
"At least my matches had proper bloodlines," Beatrice hissed. "At least I understood the importance of marrying well rather than indulging romantic fantasies about starving artists!"
"He is not starving," Veronica said, louder this time. "And even if he were, I would rather be poor with a man who loves me than wealthy with one who tolerates me!"
"You do not know what you are talking about," Beatrice said, finally turning to face her daughter. "You are too young, too naive to understand what poverty actually means. What it is like to struggle, to scrape by, to—"
"To be like you?" Veronica interrupted, and there was steel in her voice now that Anthea had never heard before. "To marry for money and regret it every day? To be bitter and cruel because you chose security over happiness?"
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.