As Marigold fumbled to unlock the front door to her digs, she could hear Miss Hinchcliffe, her landlady, on the telephone in the hall, sounding even more severe than usual. When she'd been billeted here at the start of her posting with GC&CS, she'd found the older woman positively terrifying: with her mass of poker-straight, steel grey hair, stick-thin figure, electric-blue eyes and tendency to wear long, billowing gowns in the fashions of her youth, 'Hinny' resembled nothing so much as the village witch. Added to which, she most definitely did not suffer fools.

But Miss Hinchcliffe had a secret: nice she would never be, but she was very, very kind.

Marigold had discovered this last winter, when she'd frequently arrived home from night shifts, frozen numb from bicycling back from the Park, to find hot water bottles tucked into her bed and an extra rasher of bacon on her breakfast plate the next morning when she finally surfaced from bed. "Don't be ridiculous," her landlady had said, when Marigold had tried to thank her. "Bad enough having to give up my back bedroom for the war effort - the last thing I've time for is young girls with pneumonia or influenza."

Still, Marigold felt rather sorry for whoever it was who had had the misfortune to be on the other end of that telephone. As she emerged into the hallway proper, Hinny said, "Ah, I think I hear Miss Crawley coming in just now." A babble of chatter on the other line, and Hinny's already thin mouth practically disappeared. "I will ask Miss Crawley if she would like to speak to you, Flight Lieutenant."

The bottom dropped out of Marigold's stomach even before Hinny turned to her, hand covering the transmitter. "Flight Lieutenant Chetwood, Miss Crawley. Will you speak to him?"

"I - I - when - "

Hinny, impatient with her stammering, thrust the telephone at her. "For goodness' sake, take it. And might I remind you that I'm not paid to be your secretary? Especially not to facilitate courtships with wastrel boys." Marigold winced. Mother had made no secret of the fact that she was going to tell Hinny precisely what had occurred between her and James - "So that you have someone who can keep an eye on you, my darling" - and clearly Hinny had decided that James was now persona non grata in these parts.

"Yes, Miss Hinchcliffe. I'm sorry - I have no idea why he's telephoning." Hinny hmm'ed disapprovingly and took herself off to the sitting room. Like Marigold's mother, she had never particularly warmed to James. Any meetings between the two that had taken place at her house had been carried out in the front room, with the door open and both participants seated at least two feet apart from each other.

Rather sensible, on reflection. At least Marigold wasn't about to join the apparently swelling ranks of unmarried, pregnant servicewomen. Thank Heavens for small mercies.

"What do you want, James?" she asked, exhaustion making her brusque.

"Marigold." He sounded a little stunned that she'd agreed to speak to him. "Hello. H-how - how are you?"

At least he sounded better than he had the last time they'd spoken - less corpse-like. Marigold scowled. Wounded RAF pilot? He's probably having to fend pretty nurses off with a stick!

"Fine. What do you want?"

He swallowed. She distinctly heard his throat bob down the line. "I wanted to - to apologise."

Well, that was new. "For which bit specifically?" she wondered. "The bit where you called me a child, the bit where you told me to leave and not come back, or the bit where you broke my heart?"

"For all of those things, my darling."

"Don't call me that."

There was a very long, awkward silence, broken only when James admitted: "Look, I know I was an idiot."

"Yes, you were." Was he hoping she was going to disagree? Hard cheese, Marigold thought and perched on the bottom step of the staircase. It was just close enough to the telephone that she could do so without risking dragging the contraption off the hall table and securing her murder at Hinny's hands.

"I wasn't in my right mind. I said a lot of stupid things - "

"Yes, you did," she agreed, beginning to unlace her shoes and slip her aching feet free of them. There was a hole coming in the toe of one of her stockings. Wonderful. "James, is this conversation going somewhere? I've just come off an exceptionally long and dull shift, and I truly don't have the energy for another quar- "

"I want you to marry me," James blurted out.

For a second, Marigold was sure she'd misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

James rushed on: "I take back everything I said. I'm in love with you and I want you to be my wife."

Marigold chewed her lip. "I - I l-love you too, James. Probably a bit of me always will." Her voice hardened. "But that isn't the point. I can't t-trust you any more." She hadn't realised it herself until she'd said it, but there it was. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life worrying that the next time things get a little difficult, you'll turn tail and run again. That's no way to live. Surely you see that?"

The line crackled as James exhaled, a long, bone-weary sigh. "I - Yes. Of course. I understand perfectly." She could almost hear him standing to attention as he continued. "I'm - I'm very sorry for the distress I've caused you, Miss Crawley, and - and I hope very much that one day you find a man who can appreciate you as you deserve."

There wasn't anything to do after that save hang up. Marigold did so, sat back down on her step, and had a good cry.

Hinny found her some time later, snivelling into her skirt. Marigold heard the click of the catch on the first aid box on the hall table, and then Hinny lifted her firmly by the chin and shoved the smelling salts directly under her nose.* Marigold caught one whiff of the sharp ammonia scent, sneezed violently and stopped crying. Hinny replaced the smelling salts with a small glass of brandy. "Now drink this and stop watering the carpet," she ordered, not unkindly. "And then get yourself to bed."

"Well," Anthony said, sitting back in his armchair and setting aside the novel he was reading, "I'm not entirely sure what you were expecting her to say, old chap."

James gave a dejected little shrug as he sat down opposite his uncle, on the other side of the fireplace. At this angle, lit only by the flames and the dim table-lamp, he knew he looked even more of a horror than he did in full daylight. The quacks were talking about skin grafts and what not - he'd already had enough saline baths to last him a lifetime* - and he was feeling a damn sight better now that he'd been allowed to come to Strallan House and recuperate there, but the handsome face that had stared back at him from mirrors all his life was a distant memory. Along, it seemed, with the sight in his left eye.

"Don't you start as well," he muttered. "I've already had Dad give me a verbal hiding - not to mention Lady Edith."

Anthony huffed out a short laugh. "That sounds like her. And her daughter, apparently."

James watched him for a moment. "You… like Lady Edith an awful lot, don't you?"

Anthony avoided his eye, choosing instead to give the fire a good stirring. "Yes. I do."

"She said it was too late for you and her. Do you think that too?"

The poker clanged against the hearth. "I - well - yes. She's quite probably very right."

"I don't suppose… well, now that everything's gone for a Burton* with Marigold… I don't suppose you'll be seeing all that much of her in future."

"No," Uncle Anthony agreed softly. "I… don't suppose that I shall."

"Congratulations, Geoffrey." For once in Edith's life, something seemed to be going right. As her home-life collapsed slowly and steadily around her ears, at least the magazine was going from strength to strength. "According to letters we're receiving, your article has been most popular with the readership. Struck just the right note, I think - thought-provoking, but balanced." Edith smiled at her sub-editor over the crowded desk between them. "Whoever knew that you and Cynthia could make such a formidable team?"

"Lay all the praise at Miss Gilchrist's door," Geoffrey replied breezily, stretching out his wounded leg with a faint grimace. The quacks had worked wonders on him after Dunkirk - so much so that he'd returned to work at The Sketch just a month later, after receiving his medical discharge - but in cold, damp weather, the leg would probably always pain him. Nighttime stints fire-watching with the AFS probably weren't helping*, but Edith wasn't about to re-start that particular argument. "She reins in the schoolboy in me, didn't you know?"

Edith shook her head. "You should tell her that, you know."

"Thank you, Mother." Geoffrey shrugged, making a show of refilling his pipe so as to avoid meeting Edith's eye. "Perhaps I will, at that. One of these days."

"You'll need to be quick about it. What if she gets snapped up by - by another publication?"

Geoffrey regarded her with unimpressed, unblinking eyes. "Then they'll be very lucky," he replied patiently, "and I'll have more room in here."

Edith chuckled, letting the matter drop. You could lead a horse to water, as the old saying went, but in this case you could not, it seemed, make him drink. She stood and shuffled together the diary and folder of papers she carried everywhere with her. "Geoffrey - speaking as your employer? Cynthia's the best thing ever likely to happen to you." Her voice softened. "As your friend? Same sentiments apply."

"Go and torment someone else," Geoffrey ordered cheerfully. Edith went.

Daphne looked up from her desk as Edith approached their end of the office. "Oh, Lady Edith, good. Sir Anthony's in your office. Called about ten minutes ago, and said he'd wait." The secretary chewed her lip. "I thought… in view of recent events…?"

Edith nodded. "Don't worry, Daphne - perfectly right. I'm free until after lunch, aren't I?"

"Yes, my lady. Just that meeting with the woman from the Ministry of Information at three."

Edith rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes. Joy of joys."

She pushed open the office door with her hip and entered to find Anthony, left arm tucked behind his back, admiring her bookshelves. One of these days, Edith was expecting the whole lot to collapse, crammed full as they were, but fortunately they hadn't crushed Anthony. Instead, he turned and smiled as she entered. "Hello. Your secretary said you wouldn't mind my waiting - I do hope she was right."

It was almost a mirror of their first re-meeting, just shy of two months ago - both of them in her office - but this one was much warmer. "I'm sorry, have you been waiting long?" As she spoke, she dumped her collection of papers on the desk and gestured him into a seat. "I was caught up in a meeting with one of my sub-editors."

"Not at all." He tweaked up the knees of his trousers and sat. "Tremaine and Gilchrist, is that right?"

"Yes. They fight like cat and dog most of the time, and then they go and produce something… utterly brilliant together." Edith thought she'd still be crowing about this success in a year's time - if not longer.

"The trekkers article?" he guessed.

"Sir Anthony Strallan," she teased, "I do believe you read my magazine."

"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid, Lady Edith." His own smile was shy and soft. "I've been an ardent subscriber to The Sketch for, oh, twenty years now."

The significance of the date did not escape her. Fortunately, she had grown out of blushing roughly as long ago. An illicit affair with a married man, and an illegitimate daughter tended to make one rather brazen in other areas of life too. She leaned forwards across the desk, as if ready to impart a great secret. "Well, given that I don't think you're engaged in journalistic espionage on behalf of one of my competitors… would you like to see the proofs for the next edition?"

"I'd love to!"

"Well, then, here they are…" As she spoke, Edith stood and pulled out a sliding extension from beneath the opposite side of her desk and clicked the support struts into place. Spread out on it were large sheets of paper covered in articles, photographs and drawings. Anthony pulled up the tall stool Edith used when she was reviewing everything, his expression like nothing so much as that of a schoolboy offered an unexpected bag of sweets. "I say, an interview with Eleanor Rathbone! Whatever was she like in person?"*

"Terrifying!" Edith laughed. "But very interesting - I hope people will enjoy it."

And so on. It was perfectly natural for Edith to lean over his shoulder as he read, pointing out items of particular interest. More than that, it was nice to be close to Anthony in that way, feeling the warmth of him, and breathing in that old, familiar scent of pipe-tobacco and peppermints. She'd thought she'd forgotten. She'd thought she'd forgotten so much, but she hadn't, not at all. She'd just buried it all away deep inside her, locked it up and thrown the key away, until he'd found it - found her - again and reminded her.

Anthony was a perceptive reader - keen to ask questions and make suggestions - and before Edith knew it, Daphne was tapping on her door. "Excuse me, Lady Edith, it's lunchtime. Might I fetch you anything before I go out?"

Edith knew that tone of voice: lightly inquiring, perfectly professional, but also a little pleading. Edith herself might spend her days shackled to her desk, but it wouldn't do to make Daphne work through her lunch too. She straightened, the last traces of laughter - Anthony had just said something terribly clever and amusing - fading as she turned to her secretary. "No, thank you Daphne. Do enjoy your lunch."

By the time she'd turned back to her guest, Anthony had pulled his pocket watch out of his jacket and was squinting down at it as his eyes tried to focus on the small face after so long spent reading. Edith smiled fondly. "Put on your glasses, for goodness's sake." Her smile widened and she shook her head in mock exasperation. "And I thought I was the vain one."

Anthony tucked the watch away. "Thank you very much." He stood. "I'm sorry, I've taken up far more of your time than I intended."

"Oh, don't worry about that." She began to unhook the extension and slide it, and its precious cargo, carefully away again. "I enjoyed it - it's always pleasant to discuss my work with someone who seems to understand it."

"A compliment indeed." He was fiddling with the brim of his hat, as if he were working up to something, and then he asked, rather suddenly, "I say… might I take you to lunch? A thank you for a most edifying morning? Or are you frightfully busy here?"

"Why not? I've nothing else on this afternoon, just one of 'Cooper's Snoopers'* coming at three - no doubt to tell me what jollying little advertisements I can print to raise morale among the readership. Let me fetch my hat and coat, and powder my nose, and I shall be ready."

In this case, 'powdering her nose' wasn't merely a polite euphemism. In the office WC's mirror, Edith put the last remnants of her compact and a single, precious slick of lipstick to good use. Well, it was only polite to look one's best, wasn't it, if a gentleman invited one out to lunch? Polite. You're fooling no one, my dear, her grandmother's voice tutted in her head. Violet Crawley, right up until the day she died, had always been irritatingly perceptive, and the voice of Edith's conscience had always been hers.

Edith scowled at herself in the mirror. "Believe what you like," she told her reflection and put away her cosmetics.

Over delicate, if thinly-filled, sandwiches and tea in the Tottenham Court Road Lyons' Corner House, Edith said, "I don't think you ever mentioned what you wanted to speak to me about. I'm sorry - we got distracted by the proofs."

Anthony refilled their teacups, caught the eye of the nippy and asked for more hot water before replying. "I suppose I wanted to know… well, does everything with James and Marigold mean that… that you won't want to see me again?"

Edith looked up, startled, from the remains of two slices of bread and butter masquerading as an egg mayonnaise sandwich. "Is this why you invited me to lunch? To ask me that?"

Anthony shrugged gracelessly. "Well, you know. Thought I'd… make it as easy as possible for you, if you did want to… to tell me to push off." He stirred his tea, avoiding her eye. "Perfectly understandable, if you did, you know."

Edith did not reply, and Anthony did not press her. Instead, they sat wordlessly and sipped their tea and listened to the pianist in the corner, playing something soothing and delicate. Chopin, she thought dazedly. One of the Nocturnes.*

Well, this is a novelty, Granny's voice sneered in her head - and, really, she'd been showing up far too often today. Sir Anthony Strallan asking you what you want before he vanishes.

Inwardly, Edith winced. That was a little harsh. After all, one couldn't spend twenty years being cross with a man for ignoring one's wishes, and then be equally cross when he finally seemed willing to listen to one's views on the matter of his place in one's life.

What were those views? Well, she didn't want him to go away again, that was for certain. She knew that, if she knew nothing else. Despite all of the chaos going on with Marigold and James, it had been rather nice, seeing Anthony again. He was very charming, after all. Not charming in the way that Michael had been, all roguish and attractively disreputable, but charming in a quiet, shy sort of manner that had the power to delight in a way that Michael's caddishness had never quite managed. Odd, that.

Added to which… well, it wasn't often that Edith encountered people with whom she was in perfect concert. She had friends, of course, plenty of them - but there was somehow a difference between friends made in later life, and friends who had known one since the very earliest days of one's adulthood. And Anthony knew the inside of her: her tastes in literature and art and music, what would amuse or disgust her, what her principles and her politics were, where her weaknesses lay, where her cracks and flaws were centred…

Anthony needed no explanations when it came to her. It would be a shame to lose all of that, just when she thought she was finding it again.

At length, she looked back at him, and offered, "I adore Marigold. She's the thing in my life that I'm proudest of - but I'm not about to let her or her feelings dictate with whom I may or may not be friends. Not in this case, anyway." She paused, working up the courage to continue. In a very small voice, quite unlike her usual self, she pressed on, "Do - do you want to… to break things off?" Again? Her brain added that last silently.

Anthony's eyes widened and his hand settled, warm and reassuring, over hers. "No! Heavens, no! If you must know, I think all of this has been rather… fortuitous. I've very much enjoyed our little get-togethers, even if things have been a little… fraught of late."

"Well." Edith let her fingers lace with his, and squeezed. "That's that, then."

AN:

1: In the Second World War, all households were encouraged to keep a first aid box handy, for treating minor wounds received as a result of air raids. One of the items recommended was indeed smelling salts.

2: Saline baths as a treatment for severe burns were developed by the surgeon Archibald McIndoe during the Second World War, after he noticed that pilots who received burns after crashing their planes into the sea tended to heal quicker than pilots who had crashed on land.

3: 'gone for a Burton' = Second World War RAF slang for 'to die, to be broken' - generally used to describe a pilot who had died.

4: AFS = 'Auxiliary Fire Service.' Geoffrey joined up the day war was declared, was wounded at Dunkirk and was lucky enough to be picked up by a fishing boat and brought back home. Of course, not being the sort to sit around and do nothing, he signed up for fire-watching as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to bully an AFS recruiter into taking him - shrapnel-shredded leg or not.

5: Eleanor Rathbone was a British MP between 1929 and 1946. There isn't space here to list of all her brilliant achievements, but here are just a few choice examples anyway: she was an early university graduate and suffrage campaigner; she campaigned for better benefits for the children of the unemployed during the Depression; she was the founder of the organisation which became SSAFA (the Armed Forces charity); she campaigned for the government to allow dissident Germans, Austrians and Jews asylum in the UK before the outbreak of the Second World War; and one of her first speeches to Parliament upon being elected in 1929 was on the issue of FGM. Apparently, she was known to be such a tough customer that junior ministers and civil servants of the Foreign Office would reputedly duck behind pillars when they saw her coming!

6: At the time this story takes place, Duff Cooper was Minister for Information - basically propaganda, but also encompassing social research projects like Home Intelligence and Mass Observation. Many Brits thought that the Ministry's tactics of gauging public morale were overly-invasive, with Home Intelligence itself recording in 1940 that the public thought the UK government was "becoming dangerously akin to the one we are fighting." All of this prompted the newspapers to coin the term 'Cooper's Snoopers' for those who worked for the MOI. There were also accusations that Cooper wanted to limit freedom of the press through a system of compulsory censorship. (When Cooper is sacked in July 1941, and replaced with the much milder Brendan Bracken, Edith and the office staff hold a small party in celebration.)

7: The Nocturne that Edith and Anthony are listening to is indeed by Chopin - Nocturne No. 2 in E Flat. Very sedate and soothing for an awkward conversation with your ex, I think.