When Edith was little, she had expected nothing more than to be a wife. She would be loving and supportive to her husband, content with running his household and being an ornament for his arm. As she grew older, neglected and plain, complete subservience seemed a small price to pay for a scrap of affection and some romance.
Now thirty, it only stood to reason that her desperation and willingness to compromise and bend her will to her husband's should have increased. Out of gratitude, if nothing else. But thirty year old Edith was vastly different to thirteen year old Edith. She was done scraping and skulking, lashing out passively and grovelling for love. She had her career and her interests, and they had stood by her and sustained her far more than love ever had, which only seemed to bring her heartache.
Bertie understood. Her dear, sweet husband, understood completely. He loved Edith for her independence, her passion and dedication to her work. In return, she loved him for his gentle nature. His kindness and sensitivity, attributes that caused the world at large to look on him with scorn. If Edith failed in feminine obedience, then Bertie utterly lacked the restraint expected of a gentleman.
That said, it was Edith shaking and spitting as they returned to their bedroom, the party at Downton ending in disaster as Edith stormed from the Drawing Room, Bertie scurrying behind her.
Bertie reached out and placed a soothing hand on her bare shoulder.
"Edith," he said softly, "Calm down,"
Edith tugged at her gloves, growling in frustration as they snagged and refused to budge.
"Don't you mind?" she demanded, "When they have the nerve to speak of you like that?"
'They' being several of Henry's school friends and fellow drivers, who had taken to discretely mocking the Marquess of Hexham for his utter lack of manliness. How he deferred to his wife, and even let her work. Spending more time up in London and letting out Brancaster so that she may pursue her her journalism, instead of insisting she give up such foolish pursuits, as any true man would demand of his wife.
"Of course I don't mind," Bertie assured her, drawing her into him arms, "They're small weak men, what they say means nothing to me,"
Edith rested her head against Bertie's shoulder. She could not help but envy Bertie's self-assurance. Even now, she took slights to heart a bit more than she should.
"In truth," Bertie continued, "I pity them,"
Edith drew back in confusion. "Pity them?" she repeated.
"Of course," Bertie tilted up Edith's chin and kissed her forehead, then her lips, "I pity any man that doesn't have you for a wife,"