Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The first hour of the journey passed in suffocating silence.
Anthea stared out the window, watching the London streets give way to countryside, her mind spinning with calculations. How much of a head start did Poppy and Henry have? What route would they take? Could they possibly catch up before—
"We will find them," Gregory said quietly.
Anthea did not respond. She could not force the words past the tightness in her throat.
She felt Gregory shift on the seat beside her, felt his hand reach toward hers, but she pulled away before he could make contact. Wrapped her arms around herself instead, creating a barrier he could not breach.
She could not bear his comfort right now. Could not accept reassurance she did not deserve.
Gregory withdrew, his hand falling back to his lap. The silence stretched taut between them.
"Sybil and Hugo are meeting us at the first posting inn," Gregory said after another long moment. "Cassandra is sending word to contacts along the northern road. Between all of us, we should be able to track them."
"Mm," Anthea managed. The smallest possible acknowledgment.
More silence.
Anthea could feel Gregory watching her, could sense his concern like a physical weight. But she kept her gaze fixed on the window, on the passing landscape that blurred together into meaningless green and brown.
Somewhere out there, Poppy was traveling toward Scotland. Toward a hasty marriage that would brand her as impulsive at best, scandalous at worst. Toward a future that would always be marked by this choice.
And it was Anthea's fault.
If she had been paying attention. If she had put her sisters first instead of her own desires. If she had been the guardian she promised to be—
"Stop," Gregory said.
Anthea turned to look at him, startled. "What?"
"Stop torturing yourself," Gregory said. His expression was gentle but his voice was firm. "I can see you spiraling. Can practically hear the thoughts circling in your mind."
"You do not know what I am thinking," Anthea said stiffly.
"Do I not?" Gregory leaned forward slightly. "You are thinking this is your fault. That you should have seen it coming. That you are somehow inadequate because your grown sister made her own decision without consulting you."
The accuracy of his assessment should have been comforting. Instead, it made her feel exposed. Vulnerable.
"I do not wish to discuss this," Anthea said, turning back to the window.
"Anthea—"
"Please," she interrupted, her voice breaking slightly. "Just... please. Not now."
She felt rather than saw Gregory retreat. Felt the careful distance he put between them on the carriage bench. Felt his frustration and concern warring in the air between them.
But he said nothing more.
The carriage rolled on.
They stopped at the first posting inn to change horses and discovered Sybil and Hugo already waiting. Sybil took one look at Anthea's face and pulled her aside while the men conferred about routes and timing.
"What happened?" Sybil asked quietly. "Gregory sent word that Poppy eloped, but—"
"I did not notice," Anthea said, her voice flat. "She was planning this for days, probably. Leaving hints. Acting strangely. And I was so wrapped up in my own life that I completely missed every sign."
"Anthea, you cannot blame yourself for—"
"Who else should I blame?" Anthea demanded. "I am her guardian. Her protector. I promised to keep her safe and help her find a good match. And instead, she felt her only option was to run away to Scotland because I could not adequately shield her from Beatrice's machinations."
"That is not—" Sybil stopped, clearly choosing her words carefully. "Poppy made her own choice. For her own reasons. You cannot control every decision your sisters make."
"I should have seen it coming," Anthea insisted. "The way she has been acting. The distraction. If I had been paying proper attention instead of—"
She stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
Instead of falling in love with Gregory. Instead of being happy. Instead of thinking about her own future rather than her responsibilities.
"You are allowed to be happy," Sybil said gently, as though reading her thoughts. "Being a good guardian does not mean sacrificing every moment of personal joy."
"Clearly it does," Anthea said bitterly. "Because the moment I let myself be distracted, everything fell apart."
Before Sybil could respond, Gregory appeared in the doorway.
"We have a lead," he said. "A couple matching their description stopped at an inn about three hours north. We should go."
They returned to the carriage. This time, Sybil and Hugo rode with them, which meant Anthea could not retreat entirely into her own thoughts. Had to maintain at least a veneer of composure.
But inside, her mind continued its relentless spiral.
What would she say when they found Poppy? How could she possibly explain that she had been so consumed with her own romantic happiness that she had completely abandoned her duty? How could she look her sister in the eye knowing she had driven her to this desperate act through sheer negligence?
And what would happen after? Even if they stopped the marriage, even if Gregory secured a proper license, the scandal would follow Poppy forever. Whispers about the girl who tried to elope to Gretna Green. Questions about what desperation had driven her to such an act.
All because Anthea had been too selfish to pay attention.
"She will be all right," Sybil said quietly, clearly misinterpreting Anthea's expression. "Poppy is resilient. And Henry loves her. Whatever happens, they will find a way through this."
Anthea nodded mechanically. But she barely heard the words past the roaring in her own head.
Resilient. As though that absolved Anthea of her responsibility. As though it did not matter that she had forced her sister into a position where resilience was necessary.
The countryside blurred past. Miles of road that brought them closer to the reckoning Anthea both desperately needed and utterly dreaded.
At the second posting inn, they learned Poppy and Henry had stopped for a meal less than two hours prior. They were gaining ground.
"We will catch them before nightfall," Gregory said, his expression determined. "Before they reach the border."
Relief and dread warred in Anthea's chest. They would stop the elopement. But then what? How could she fix the damage that had already been done?
Gregory touched her arm gently. "Anthea. Talk to me. Please."
She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since they had discovered the letter. Saw the concern etched into every line of his face. The love that still somehow existed despite her complete inadequacy.
She wanted to lean into him. To accept the comfort he was offering. To believe that this could be fixed, that she could be forgiven, that she was not the failure Beatrice had always claimed.
But the words would not come. The walls had gone back up, higher and thicker than before, and she could not make herself vulnerable again. Not when being vulnerable had led directly to this disaster.
"I am fine," she lied. "Simply worried about Poppy."
Gregory's jaw tightened. He did not believe her—that much was obvious. But he did not press. Simply withdrew his hand and gave her the space she had demanded.
The space that felt more like abandonment than freedom.
But she had no one to blame for that but herself.
They caught up to Poppy and Henry's carriage just as the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon.
The road had narrowed, winding through a stretch of forest, and their driver spotted the other carriage ahead—moving at a leisurely pace, clearly confident they had not been followed.
"There," Gregory said, pointing. "That must be them."
Anthea's heart began to race. After hours of travel, of spiraling thoughts and mounting dread, they had finally found them.
"What do we do?" Hugo asked. "Force them to stop?"
"No," Gregory said. "We simply... pull alongside and make our presence known. They will stop."
Their driver urged the horses faster, closing the distance. Anthea watched through the window as they drew level with the other carriage. Saw the exact moment when someone inside noticed them.
The carriage ahead slowed. Stopped.
A young man climbed out—Henry, unmistakably. Even from this distance, Anthea could see the way his shoulders tensed, the protective stance he took as their own carriage came to a halt.
Then Poppy emerged. Her face went white when she saw them.
For a long moment, no one moved. The two carriages sat facing each other on the empty road, dust settling around them, the only sound the restless stamping of horses.
Finally, Gregory opened their carriage door and stepped out. Offered his hand to help Anthea down.
She took it mechanically, her legs unsteady after so many hours sitting.
Poppy stood frozen beside Henry, one hand gripping his arm. She looked young suddenly—younger than her twenty years. Young and frightened and defiant all at once.
"Anthea," she said, her voice shaking. "I told you not to follow us."
Anthea tried to speak. Tried to find words that would encompass everything she felt—the anger, the hurt, the crushing sense of her own inadequacy. But her throat had closed up entirely.
Gregory squeezed her hand gently. Looked at her with a silent question: Do you want me to handle this?
Anthea shook her head. This was her responsibility. Her mess to clean up.
She had to find the words. Had to face her sister and somehow make this right.
Even though she had no idea how.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
Poppy's expression shifted from frightened to something that looked almost like pity.
"I am sorry," Poppy said softly. "I know this is not what you wanted. But it is done, Anthea. We are married. Or we will be, by tomorrow. You cannot change that."
"We can," Gregory said quietly. "There are other ways. Better ways. Ways that do not require you to scandalize yourself."
"At what cost?" Henry spoke for the first time, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from his frame. "At the cost of giving her mother ammunition? At the cost of my sisters' reputations?"
"I can protect your sisters," Gregory said. "I can ensure Beatrice has no power to—"
"You cannot protect everyone," Poppy interrupted. She was looking at Anthea now, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Not from her. She finds ways. She always finds ways. And I could not—I will not—let her destroy what Henry and I have. Not when I finally found someone who—"
Her voice broke.
Anthea felt something crack in her chest. Felt the careful walls she had constructed begin to crumble.
"Poppy," she whispered. The first word she had managed since they stopped. "Please."
"Please what?" Poppy asked. "Please come back? Please pretend this did not happen? Please trust that you can fix everything?" She shook her head. "I love you, Anthea. But I cannot put my future in anyone else's hands. Not even yours."
The words landed like stones.
Anthea swayed slightly. Felt Gregory's hand steady her, felt his solid presence at her back.
But all she could see was Poppy's face. Young and determined and so certain that running away was the only answer.
Because Anthea had not given her any other choice.
Because Anthea had been too distracted, too selfish, too inadequate to create an environment where Poppy felt safe enough to ask for help.
This was what failure looked like.
This—standing on a dusty road watching her sister choose exile over trust—this was the price of her incompetence.
"We should talk," Gregory said, his voice calm and reasonable despite the tension crackling through the air. "All of us. Properly. Before any irrevocable decisions are made."
Henry and Poppy exchanged a glance. Some silent communication passed between them.
"All right," Henry said finally. "We will talk. But I will not have Miss Poppy bullied or manipulated into—"
"No one is going to bully anyone," Gregory interrupted. "We simply need to discuss options. Calmly. Like reasonable adults."
Another pause.
Then Poppy nodded slowly. "Very well. We will talk."
But as they began moving toward a clearing where both carriages could stop properly, as Sybil and Hugo emerged and introductions were made, Anthea felt nothing but emptiness.
They had found Poppy and Henry. They had stopped them before they reached Gretna Green.
But Anthea had no idea what to say that would make any of this right.
No idea how to repair the trust she had broken through her own negligence.
No idea how to be the guardian she had promised to be when she could barely hold herself together.
The conversation would happen. Solutions would be discussed. Decisions would be made.
But Anthea knew—with cold, crushing certainty—that nothing would ever be the same again.
She had failed.
And no amount of talking would change that fundamental truth.