Newcastle
She'd been wrong, she saw that now. Wrong on so many fronts, in so many ways.
Bertie had returned to their compartment and studiously resisted from speaking to her. He'd wanted to, desperately, but he had no words. Edith had expected something from him but when it didn't come she'd accepted it for what it was. The silence between them was strangely companionable and lasted until the steel of the Tyne Bridge still under construction had come into view. Bertie stood and lifted down their cases, the larger ones having gone ahead from Paris, the risk of theft from the guards van too great these days for there to be any other viable option. He'd paused as she adjusted her hat in the mirror above the seats and turned towards him and brushed some strands of lint from his shoulders. She'd tilted her head up and smiled tentatively.
"I love you," she'd said simply.
There'd been no expectation of a response in her voice. She hadn't said it to receive assurances that he felt the same. Quite the opposite, she'd wanted to start to repair the damage that she took full responsibility for creating.
"And I you," he'd sighed resignedly before bending down and placing a kiss delicately on her cheek, just catching the edge of her lips as she'd turned towards him. There'd been no need for anything further.
They'd arrived into Newcastle Central station and been patient as their fellow passengers were taken up with stepping carefully down from the train and organising themselves for their onward journeys. They'd eventually followed suit and he'd ushered her through the congregated crowds that were waiting to board, bound for destinations further north towards Berwick, Edinburgh and beyond. It had felt good to stretch their legs after so much time sitting, even the smog-filled air circling up to the high steel rafters was a welcome change. She'd expected him to lead them to an adjacent platform, the train that would take them to Brancaster or near enough, but he'd clearly decided otherwise as before too long they'd entered the lobby of the Royal Station Hotel. She'd hung back as he'd spoken to the gentleman behind the reception desk and made various enquiries. She'd found herself wandering through the ground floor and stopped to admire the tasteful staircase with its wrought-iron bannister leading up to the rooms above. The crystal chandelier that hung down majestically reminded her of the one in Paris that they'd passed under everyday for the last month.
"Edith, darling," he'd called, bringing her back to the present.
She'd followed the gesture of his arm and entered through an archway to the hotel bar which was mercilessly quiet. He'd ordered drinks for them and they'd again resumed their silent vigil as they sat and waited for them to be served. And it had been in that moment that the revelation had come to her, the catalogue of errors that had led them to this point.
Bertie regarded his wife. He wasn't going to try and convince himself that he wasn't confused or concerned or any of those things. Frankly he was terrified and he knew he was playing a high stakes game. He needed an explanation but wasn't going to force it from her. They'd been marvellously happy just a few short hours ago. He'd boarded the train with such excited anticipation of bringing her home and yet now it was all so different.
Somewhere near Durham he'd resolved that they wouldn't travel on to Brancaster until he was sure this was what she wanted. He'd give her every opportunity to talk, to say whatever it was that had darkened her mood, even that meant hearing she'd changed her mind about him. He would deal with it, whatever it was. If he had to lose her then better it be before she'd been officially presented to the county; better a short term scandal than a long drawn out goodbye that benefited no one.
As their drinks were placed on the low marble table in front of where they sat, he just watched her. Her declaration of love before had lessened his worry, given him an ounce of hope, but fundamentally it had not resolved anything. They'd taken separate chairs, carefully avoiding the other option of the sofa that made up one side of the seating in this section of the bar. He felt that she was a million miles away from him and he felt it keenly after so many glorious weeks of love making and intimacy. But it was necessary and so he watched and he waited. And, at length, she began.
She winced slightly as she felt the words that she'd formed in her mind catching in her throat. She took a sip of her drink, the ice cooling her breath and calming her nerves. She knew why he hadn't spoken. This was her problem to fix and she only hoped it wasn't too late.
"I'm not very good with windows," she started, looking down at her hands resting, clasped together in her lap. "There's always a window, a moment when one should speak up, and I'm particularly good at missing them."
She paused and glanced at him, he was looking at her, a slight frown but thinking. That was good, she thought, and encouraged she continued.
"I didn't tell you about Marigold when I should have. When I spoke up to your mother that was mis-timed too and almost wrecked everything. And then it sort of followed a pattern from there, I suppose. There was a chance before the wedding when we were walking across the lawns at Downton when I knew it would be wise to share with you how much I was going to miss living there, having it as my home. But I was worried you'd think I was doubting everything and so buried the thought. And then you tried to speak about the estate and how we'd tackle it together when we were in Paris and again I stopped you, what? Four, five, six times? Even today, I had my chance and I let it slip past."
Stopping to take a breath, she reached for her glass again but just held it in her hand.
"My whole life seems littered with these missed opportunities, encounters that I've misjudged. You've made it further than others have been willing to go in tolerating this unlucky life of mine."
She looked directly at him, and added defiantly, "But here we are. You have a chance to escape now. You need someone stronger, someone you can really rely on to embrace the whole kit and kaboodle that this job entails and to make a real success of it. But I see that it's not me and I'll not blame you for leaving."
She took a gulp of her drink and set it down firmly, the sound echoing louder in the empty bar than perhaps it might otherwise. She had nothing further to add, no additional justification or way of making him understand. She was a coward, as simple as that, she'd known it a long time. Any sign of bravery was an act on her part borne out of other sentiments - jealousy, selfishness, desperation, loneliness. Brancaster needs better, she thought, and he deserved better.
"Edith, this is all well and good but it's utter tosh," he said.
Her face was one of surprise, shock even at his bluntness and choice of words. She shook her head in confusion as he embraced his turn to speak.
"I won't deny your timing on certain things can be, well, unfortunate. But that's hardly a reason not to love you, build a life with you. There are so many things about you that I adore that you simply don't see in yourself. I won't list them now, you wouldn't believe me anyway, but understand that I know them to be true. All that matters is whether you love me enough to trust me. Trust me that I have every confidence in you. Trust me that I won't let anyone undermine or underestimate you. Trust me that I'll love Marigold as you do. And..." he hesitated as he reached for her hand, relieved when she let him take it, "Trust me absolutely that you can share your worries and doubts with me because, believe me, I'll be sharing mine with you, my darling."
She kept absolutely still as his declaration hummed in her mind. She could feel the tears building behind her eyes, desperate to spill across her cheeks in relief that he'd seen all of her insecurities and wanted her in spite of them.
She nodded, "I do trust you. Absolutely," and as the first drop of a tear escaped she flung herself at him, grasped his face in her hands and whispered, "I'm sorry, my darling, so desperately sorry."
He brushed his fingers to her lips, "Sshh," he replied quietly and as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him in comfort as her sobs took hold, he whispered into her hair, "It's all ok, my love. It's all ok."
