A/N: As always, a big thank you to the guest reviewers!
The first line of dialogue is taken from the season 6 Christmas Special (everything else is my own).
Chapter 20: Hearts made weak by time and fate, but strong in will - part II
2 September, 1925
Sitting at the table with her in front of him, unable to touch her, scared to death that she would leave at any second, was the most agonising thing he had ever done. He had given it his all; there was nothing else he could possibly say, especially in a public setting, that would bring her back to him more assuredly than the plain truth spoken from his heart. He was sentimental, possibly more than any aristocrat had a right to be, but the truth of the matter was, Bertie would always be a simple man at heart, no matter what people now referred to him as. He was and would always be a country boy, raised with the iron rod of his mother and the austerity of his father to rely on as examples of proper conduct, but free to grow his own heart as he pleased. And if only one thing in his world was true, then it had to be his love for Edith and the sorrow of the past weeks without her.
" The only thing I'm not ready for, is a life without you." She stared at him, and he could see the hope there, beneath all the hurt, the hope that she had clearly not dared preserve since their separation, the same hope that was now blossoming within his own chest. He needed to stoke hers, if he had any chance of getting her to at least consider his request. "I was wrong. We both were, really. When I said you didn't trust me and you agreed with me. If there was a lack of trust, it was something we both share guilt in. But more than that, I think what drove us apart was that we were both afraid for our own reasons. I'm not afraid anymore."
He had meant to speak more eloquently, but the waiter was back within earshot and that was all he could allow himself to say about the matter. He turned his eyes to the menu, even though he so terribly wished he could watch her and only her for as long as it took her to wrap her head around what he had just said. He half-heartedly skimmed through the selection of food until he found something that didn't sound too alien to his ears. He had little knowledge about wine and wanted to do better than to embarrass himself by trying to find something in the wine selection that would complement anything either of them chose to eat, so he placed his menu down and turned his attention to Edith again. The waiter chose that moment to come to their table to get their order, and Bertie mentally cursed him for interrupting.
"I want to believe you," she said when the man had gone. "But before I do, I need you to know everything. A lot more than what I told you already. Only then will I be able to believe you actually mean all of this."
He nodded and prepared himself to do just that. He hadn't listened enough during this relationship; he had done a lot of talking, and he had heard all of the words she had spoken. Indeed, he had even read her better than she probably understood, but when it came down to the most important parts, her insecurities and her reluctance, he had brushed them all aside and forged ahead with bull-headed determination of the kind that would have gotten him killed during the War. He wouldn't commit the same mistake. Not now, not ever again.
"You know who she is, and when she was conceived, but you don't know the full story." Her voice was low, barely above a whisper, and he was all too attentive himself about their surroundings to request that she speak somewhat louder. "You know about Michael and the reasons that kept us apart, as well as his motivation for going to Germany, so I won't go back on those. What I want you to try and understand, is the state of mind I was in when I discovered my condition. A part of me, absurd as it all sounded, had begun to whisper in my ear that he was fine and well, and that the only reason why I hadn't heard from him was because he had gotten what he had wanted out of me and now he had moved on. There was no way that could have been true, of course, he wasn't that kind of man, for once, and he wouldn't have given me so much power over his affairs had he been. Indeed, he would have never left his magazine just for that."
Bertie nodded, letting her know he was listening as much as encouraging her to keep going. He didn't know much about Michael Gregson, but even as the man who loved Edith now, he had no qualms believing that the man had been honest and true in his motivations; he had gone to his death because he had wanted to be with Edith, there were no words of ill that Bertie would ever speak of him.
"I thought I had to…" she choked on her own words, and the tears that had threatened to fall from both of their eyes ever since they had seen each other were now so very close to the brink of coming from hers, that Bertie placed his palm upwards on the table within her reach. She took the proffered hand and allowed herself to be strengthened by his touch. After a deep breath, she retreated it and so did he. "I went to a clinic." The meaning was clear, and even though Bertie knew she clearly hadn't gone through with that plan, he couldn't help but internally shudder at the thought. "There didn't seem to be another choice, not if I wanted to spare my family. But in the end, I couldn't do it. I wouldn't do it. I couldn't tell my family, but I loved her too much already." Edith took a deep breath, and then a sip of the champagne neither of them had yet touched. Bertie did the same out of a need to keep himself occupied rather than because he felt like it.
"Aunt Rosamund was the only one who knew at that point, for a series of reasons I'll explain another time, if you really want me to. At any rate, she felt like going to Switzerland for a while, and took me with her." The implication behind that trip was clear, of course, very much so. Bertie interrupted her as he saw the waiter approach with their meals, and when the conversation started again, Edith was much more attentive with the words she used to recount all the events that had followed. The weaning, the separation, the tenant who helped her out, the news of Michael's death and its aftermath. She didn't stop until she got to the point where her father and Tom had confronted her with their knowledge – the day the two of them had met.
Through it all, Bertie finally understood. He wasn't particularly proud of her decisions, though he could plainly see she had been driven to them by her family's inability to properly express that their love for her was stronger than any shock the news of a child born out of wedlock would bring to the family. He understood how Edith could be grateful to Lady Rosamund for the part she had played in the entire story, but it was clear to Bertie that she hadn't been remotely as helpful and accepting as a family member ought to have been. He rather thought that of everyone involved, the only sensible person had been Lady Grantham. A lot of heartache could have been avoided if Edith had gone to her mother first. Then again, what did it say about their relationship that Edith had decided not to reveal her secret to the woman who had given birth to her and who, more than anyone else, was supposed to know how bearing a child and bringing it into the world could affect her own daughter?
Bertie had eaten half of his dinner cold because he couldn't bring himself to chew at a normal pace, but the truth was it had all tasted like ash in his mouth anyway. When the time came to order dessert, neither of them felt much like celebrating, so they declined the offer and reneged on coffee as well.
Bertie requested the bill, for the first time since he had been in his relationship with Edith not fearing the numbers on the paper, and then they left the restaurant. "We shouldn't be seen out in public together," Edith commented as they walked across the hotel's lobby.
"Isn't it far more likely that someone should remark on our dining together than recognise both of us in the middle of the night as we take a walk?"
"It is," she agreed. "But I still think it best if I take a taxi. You're not a land agent anymore, Bertie. You shouldn't act like one in public."
He nodded, and took the opportunity to tell her his response to her challenge, for he had yet to give her one. "That is why I need you." He desperately wanted to take her hands in his, but didn't out of a sense of property and decorum. "I am that land agent. More than anything I've ever been in my life, that is who I am and who I will always be at heart. But I wouldn't ask you to marry me if all I wanted of you was your knowledge of what it means to be in my position. I'm asking you to marry me, even as a marquess, because I'm in love with you, and that is never going to change. I'm asking you to marry me because, even though I wasn't anyone, you found it in your heart to care for me and love me as I were, with nothing material to offer you. I'm not saying I wouldn't have liked things to be simpler, but if they're not, then I want to be with you when I have to face them, because I'm stronger with you than I could ever be on my own."
Her eyes glistened again, and she nodded. "If you're sure, then yes, I will."
Bertie smiled, and though he was bursting to kiss her, he didn't. He kept himself composed, lead her to the reception desk to ask for a taxi to be called for the lady, and then waited with her outside stoically. "We'll do things properly now," he said as an afterthought. "Come to Brancaster with me, and invite your parents as well. We'll all arrive on Friday. I have a couple of things I should take care of in London before leaving, but I want to settle everything. We will all get to know each other better for a couple of days and then we can officialise things in a way that will make everyone happy."
"What if your mother doesn't like me?"
"She's the one nobody likes," Bertie said quite seriously. "But she will like you, of that I'm quite certain."
As a taxi pulled over to the curb, Edith nodded solidly, with the resolution which he so loved about her, and then she helped herself into the taxi, though she spared him a meaningful glance. They were going to do this. Together, they could do whatever they set their minds to.
3 September, 1925
He had gone to bed content, but not quite happy. The public nature of the restaurant had been a necessary evil to sustain, not only because she would have never consented to a private meeting, but also because the only truly private place he knew where he could have talked to her was her flat. Still, managing not to break down in desperate tears, halting the conversation whenever a waiter approached, and pretending to have a jolly good time had been tiresome exercises on his nerves, and Bertie had been all too glad when the night had come to its end – despite the fact that he had been frightfully afraid of it all being a dream, of her reconsidering if left to her own devices. He had decided then and there that he would call upon her the following morning, to organise a less public meeting. There were things they needed to discuss, and there was no getting around that.
When her phone went unanswered, he swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat and extended a call to Lady Painswick, hoping that she, at least, would know how to direct him. And direct him she did, for she told him that Edith was going to be working all day at the office, but that she and Henry both were going to meet her for dinner at the house. Lady Painswick extended her invitation for dinner to him, and though he wasn't quite sure he wanted to face any member of Edith's family yet, he had to at least admit to himself that her aunt had always been supportive of him and Edith, which meant he owed her more than to rob her of Edith's company that night. He accepted, though reluctantly, and did his best not to spend his day fretting.
Henry, bless him, was less intrusive than he was supportive, never asking questions about the engagement and the wedding, but rather congratulating him once, quietly, before launching in a normal conversation that included him as well as Edith.
When dinner finally came to an end, in a very unlikely and unorthodox manner, Bertie asked to be left alone with Edith in the dining room, rather than going through the drawing room immediately. Henry didn't raise a single problem, and even though Lady Painswick didn't look too happy about the circumstance, she let it slide. There was certainly not going to be any impropriety under her roof that evening, but Bertie hoped he could be trusted enough to respect the rules at all times.
They were sitting on either side of the table, not opposite each other, but in a way that they both had to turn in their chairs, so that their backs were unsupported, to see the other straight in the eye. He was no masochist, but he thought the strain of sitting so formally without support was a right metaphor for their relationship – an exercise in braving foul weather. It didn't take Bertie's left arm long to find its way on the table, a silent, aborted attempt to reach hers, whose position mirrored his. He let the silence settle, until he was certain that neither family nor servants where anywhere near the room. Still, when he spoke, he kept his voice down.
"I have no words to express how grateful I am for this second chance," he began. "For this reason, I think we should do better this time, and for my part, I believe I should be more open than I was before."
"Bertie –"
"No," he stopped her. "Please, let me get through this before you say anything. I find myself owing you an apology, and I want to say it before we try to re-build the foundations of our relationship. And after my apology, you'll keep on listening to something I really think you should hear." He waited for her to nod in consent before he began.
"The truth is, Edith, I have been unfair to you. The reason why I came back was that I had no business faulting you for not speaking the truth earlier than you did." He saw the surprise and how she disagreed with his statement by the look she gave him, but she was true to her resolution to honour his request and did not interrupt him. "You see, I am not an incompetent man, I never found myself in the position of not knowing how to deal with what life expected of me. And when I didn't know what to do, or how to behave, I found the knowledge and applied it. There was no task I couldn't accomplish if it was described in a book; I became an Army officer by studying, leaving on the edge of a promotion to Lieutenant Colonel not because of any incompetence or fear of failure, but because my father was on his deathbed and I had no wish to let him die from a distance. When he did die, I didn't go back to my occupation because I was loathe to leave my mother alone, and when Peter offered me the job as an agent, I made it my job to become one. I extended my knowledge of farming and livestock, I studied modern machinery and less sophisticated instruments, I became as much of a solicitor as I possibly could, and became the best agent that Brancaster could ask for. But when it came to you… the thing is, Edith, there is no book that could have told me how to be the best man for you; treaties, novels, poetry, the whole literary world holds no solution to how a man hopelessly in love but terribly insecure should behave to be a proper companion to you .
"And make no mistake," he added, his voice lowering and his eyes freely welcoming the tears that threatened to fall. "I was, and still am, terribly insecure. I was mortally afraid of not measuring up and not being worthy of you because of my status, that I never stopped to listen when you remarked on your own self-worth. I could be forgiven for not inquiring further when you first said you felt unworthy of me – I had just kissed you for the first time, and I was feeling hopelessly dwarfed in comparison to Michael – but after that, there was no excuse. Even less so for the fact that, no matter how many times you tried to slow me down, I kept rushing ever forward, too afraid that if you were left a second on your own to think things through, you would come to your senses and be rid of me. And then Peter died, and my whole world was turning upside down, and I had nothing to keep me anchored to reality. Nothing but you." He felt the need to touch her in that moment, to get from her the relief that came when she gifted him with a tender caress and a loving look. But he was far from done, and he feared he wouldn't be allowed too much time yet. "I didn't want this responsibility, I still don't want it. But I was saddled with it, and all I could think about was how you were born for it. I made the exact assumption that I ought never to have made, that what kept us apart was the difference in our social status. For that, I truly do apologise."
He gave her time to take it all in, knowing now that she needed it much more than he might have originally thought. "I never would have faulted you for that," she said eventually, quietly. "But I want to thank you for saying it, it makes me feel like we can start on even footing now." Bertie nodded, happy that she had understood his intentions. "You said, though, that you had more than just an apology to make?"
"I do. And if you thought all of this has been uncomfortable," he tried to joke, in spite of the lump lodged firmly in his throat. "I think you'll want to rush out of this room soon enough."
"Go ahead anyway," she said, traces of emotion evident both in her voice and on her face.
"If we are to be married, I think we should be less reserved about our families. There's not much of mine beyond my mother, of course, just some aunt who'll suddenly name me her favourite nephew in front of all her relations, but there's quite a bit of yours." She nodded, letting him follow through. "I have had little chance to truly get to know them, but the thing is, what little I have seen of you with them has made me worry.
"No matter her role in organising yesterday evening, I hope you will not think me too presumptuous when I say that I find your sister's behaviour rather problematic. I have never had siblings of my own, but I can say that the closest thing I had to that, my relationship with Peter, left me shocked at the way Mary treats you. I will not come between the two of you because it is not my place to do so, but the thought of ever ruining Peter's happiness just because I was angry with him never even crossed my mind, and the fact that she did what she did to you… well, I'm afraid I can't see any excuse for it."
"I wasn't devoid of guilt over the years, myself. I revealed one of her deepest secrets more than ten years ago, effectively trying to ruin her life. She made me pay for it, of course, but that is no justification on my own behaviour."
"Again," Bertie said, "I am in no position to judge that, but everything else you have told me about your relationship with her pointed to one clear conclusion; you outgrew your childish spite, and learnt to be angry and resentful in private, but she didn't. I will not make trouble with her, but I will not allow her to bully you – nor will I allow the rest of your family to stand back and watch. Because, Edith, I hope you see that for however much they purport to love you, whenever you are with them, you are the worst version of yourself that you can be. And by that," he said before she could get it into her head that he thought her a bad person, "I mean that you let yourself get overwhelmed by insecurities and feelings of inadequacy that do not belong to the strong, confident woman that you are. You are smarter than any of them, kinder and certainly more suited for this world than they can ever wish to be."
"You say that because you're in love with me," she deflected automatically, much to his displeasure.
"But I don't," he opposed vehemently. "Because if I have remarked one thing while I was with all of you, it is that they keep shooting you down, content to sit by while Lady Mary lords over you and her entire queendom, acting like the world should bow to her will by divine right. Well, I'd much rather have a conversation with someone who disagrees with me and tries to convince me of their point of view, than be told by a bully that my ideas are wrong and I'm a weakling for having them. And if at over thirty years of age she still acts this way and is still surrounded by people who claim to love her quite strongly, then I am afraid all those people should be held responsible for allowing her to be so entitled."
"I can't wait for you to meet my grandmother properly," Edith said, beyond the shock he could clearly read on her face.
Bertie slid his hand forward, reaching for hers. She met him halfway through the table and their fingers met. "Just promise me you'll think on it. I know it's difficult to take it all in at once, but I want you to be better and kinder to yourself. I mean it. So just do me this favour. And then I will meet your grandmother, and I will speak up against her if you wish me to. Now that I'm a marquess, I think that gives me some right to it."
She squeezed his fingers. "It's not the right to do it that I'm worried about." She laughed. "I'm being horrid towards her, of course, but I'm not thinking straight right now."
He got up from the table, and circled around to meet her, enveloping her in his arms as he reached her. "Then take your time, I'm in no rush."
She stayed in the comfort of his embrace until she had steadied herself, and then led him to the drawing room, where Henry and Lady Painswick had been clearly waiting for them. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long," Bertie said.
"It's quite all right," Lady Painswick reassured him. "I remember being eager for some time to discuss things with my late husband before we married, I know how hard it is to find the right circumstance. Do you want something to drink?"
"Thank you, but I'm afraid I have already been here longer than I had imagined I would. I have an early morning to look forward to tomorrow, and I need the sleep. I trust you'll escort Edith home, Henry?"
"Certainly," the man answered kindly.
Bertie said his goodbyes and left quickly, apologising once to the butler for the disruption to the servants' schedule, and looking forward, now more than ever, to the next time he would talk to Edith. He had kept his reservations about her family private for far too long, and was now pleased to have said them out loud to Edith; he truly wished the best for her, and hoped that she could see how much her family had so far disappointed her in that. There was no way forward if she couldn't get closure on the past. He didn't wish her to break with them, of course, but he did wish that she would turn a new page, one where she was the one to dictate some – if not all – of the terms of her exchanges with them, that she might be herself truly with them, without fear of becoming an outcast.