"More coffee, Sir?"

"What?" Bertie replied, startled at the sudden appearance of the waiter at the worst possible moment. "Er, no thank you."

The awkwardness between them was palpable, it hung in the air above their table and he imagined it was visible to everyone around them. Except of course it wasn't, no one was paying them any heed. Why wasn't she smiling? he asked himself. Her frown had gone but no soothing words of gratitude had materialised, only this horrid atmosphere. What had he done, he wondered, to bring about this response in her.

"I think we should return to our compartment," she ventured quietly at last. "We can't talk here."

He nodded and moved to stand, to help her with her chair, but she was one step ahead of him, her napkin crumpled and discarded on the table and already starting to make her way through the dining car. He followed, a word of thanks to the waiter as he passed. She seemed to walk taller somehow than she had before, an air of defiance in her stride, passing now the wall separating the corridor from the kitchen. He hurried to catch her up and managed to do so just as she reached the door to the next carriage. He leant in and around her, grasping the handle to open it. Their bodies touched and for a moment her way was blocked by his outstretched arm. She turned her face towards his. The brim of her hat, necessitated by them leaving their compartment, bumped against his ear forced her back and a brief word of an apology from her lips.

"Edith, I..." he started to say but stopped when he saw her eyes shining, a hint of something. A tear perhaps? At that moment the train lurched forward, their departure from Newark signalled too late for them to have braced themselves. It forced her off balance and she grabbed his arm to steady herself. He could feel her breath on the side of his face. They were so close and he fought an instinct just to loop his arm around her waist and draw her to him.

"Whatever I've done, I'm sorry," he murmured.

She shook her head, still not sure what to say and instead placed her hand over his on the brass handle, forcing him to slide the door open. She stepped through and felt as the back draft that now rushed through the corridor lifted the hem of skirt slightly, the sky blue fabric fluttering before settling back down as Bertie closed the door behind them. She took a deep breath and ploughed on towards their carriage which lay two beyond where the one they were currently in. Wrenching the next door open, desperate now to reach the privacy afforded by their seats, she heard her name. She ignored it at first, assuming it was her husband urging her to slow down, but on hearing it again she realised it was someone quite different. She turned towards the sound and was surprised to find the cheerful face of Lord Gillingham staring back at her from an adjacent compartment.

"Tony! What a surprise," she managed, beyond flustered as she moved to offer him her cheek.

Using the distraction of his friendly greeting to compose herself, by the time they were facing one another again she was the picture of calm, making introductions, her hand on her husband's shoulder, the easiest way to pretend to the world she was fine. That everything was fine. She half listened as Tony offered his congratulations, apologised for not being able to attend their wedding, and made polite enquiries about their trip.

"So, Tony, where are you headed?" she interrupted, having lost the thread of their exchange, "Not to Downton, surely?"

She could feel her anxiety levels rising, struggling to retain control, her mask slipping.

Tony nodded, "Actually yes, Mary has asked for my help with..." He paused and looked at Edith intently. "Are you feeling alright? You look quite pale."

"Darling?" Bertie interseeded, seeing his wife now, her breathing shallow, deciding in an instant that action was required.

He held out his hand to Tony by way of an apology that they must go, an offered excuse of fatigue, followed by an invitation to Brancaster at some unspecified future point. With Tony's assurances of understanding received, Bertie ushered her away. He held her tightly, supporting her weight as they navigated the next two carriages and reached the safety of their own compartment at last. He knelt down in front of her, holding her hand, a silent plea for an explanation.

Edith couldn't really explain what had happened, only that she'd just felt overcome. Everything had been wonderful and then it hadn't. She looked around her, anything to avoid his eye, her attention caught by the arm of her coat which had come loose from where it had been carefully laid across a seat, the cuff now dangerously close to being marked by the dirt of the floor. She shifted so she could reach it, lifting and returning it to its proper place. In doing so she subconsciously leant away from Bertie and when she returned found that he'd moved to the seat opposite her, but his gaze had not shifted. This was no good, she thought, I have to talk to him. She cleared her throat.

"I suspect you meant kindly, but Marigold is my concern. Mine alone. You had no right to -"

"No right?" he interjected, his voice louder than he'd anticipated, "No right? How can you say that? She is absolutely my concern."

He was hurt, his face a cross between anger and disappointment, but also disbelief. After everything they'd been through, hidden truths almost preventing their complete happiness, how could she contemplate he'd be anything but wholly accepting of his new role? He looked away from her. As a rule he disliked unpleasantness, could muster himself to smooth over most things, but he didn't back down when it mattered. He took some breaths to calm himself but as he prepared to speak, she got there first.

"I have to be the one to make decisions for her. She is my cross to bear, not yours. She is my world, Bertie. And I have to be allowed to do this."

Her voice was fragile but with a steeliness he'd only witnessed once, the night they'd worked against the odds, side by side, to get her magazine out, the night he'd fallen in love with her. He reached for her now, relieved that she didn't pull away as his outstretched arm touched her knee gently.

"But you see, she's not yours anymore, she's ours. I don't seek to replace her father, as silly as that sounds, or go against your hopes and wishes for her. But I mean to love and care for her, my darling. As I do for you."

He dared to caress the inside of her thigh with his thumb, adding more softly, "How do you not know this, my dear?"

Of course she'd known he was content to accept Marigold as part of his household, but she hadn't dared to ask for more, or even realised that she'd wanted it. The sincerity of his words however, suffused with his affection, was enough to convince her that there was another option after all, to not be alone on this anymore.

"I'm just so used to her being mine. I've been assuming that was still the case, and likely always would be." She gave him a weak smile, "It would be nice to share her. If you're sure."

She felt a tear slide from her eye but quickly brushed it away with the back of her hand and let a small laugh escape her, a release from a worry she'd hadn't fully known she'd been carrying until his words had unknowingly resolved it. She went to him, took the seat next to him, turned slightly so her back was to the window. She clasped his hands in hers as he closed the distance and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He felt the squeeze of her hand as he did so, the feeling of relief washing through him, through them both. And everything was as it should be once more.