"My name is Marigold Crawley. I'd like to see Sir Anthony. Please."

The manservant's eyebrows rose at her name, but he stepped back and admitted her just the same. "Do come in, Assistant Section Officer," he said, and Marigold hated that - hated that even in civilian clothes, he knew enough about her to remember her rank. Just how long had this been going on, if even the servants knew all about it? "I shall see if Sir Anthony is available."

She was left alone in the hall - huge and somehow more imposing than it had been the last time she had been there. But then, last time, James had been with her, and she had been an invited guest, not an invader. Slowly, she paced to the mirror that hung on the wall, her heels clicking against the marble floor, and looked at herself in the mirror. A tired, cross, pale face stared back at her. Hardly ready for battle. Perhaps she should have come in uniform. At least it would have made her feel a little less like a ridiculous schoolgirl.

The manservant - Stewart? - coughed politely behind her and Marigold jumped. At least he had the decency to pretend he hadn't noticed. Instead, he gestured past them, along the hallway. "If you'll follow me, madam?"

Sir Anthony was already standing as she marched into his study. Marigold took him in, struck anew by how much he looked like James. He looked past her, over her shoulder, exchanging a brief, reassuring glance with Mr Stewart. Marigold heard the soft snap of the door shutting behind her and then…

And then they were alone.

"Won't you sit down?" Sir Anthony asked, his uninjured hand pointing to a comfortable chair by the fire.

Marigold hadn't been expecting that quiet offer. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, to be honest. Something suaver, more debonair, cavalier, she supposed. Nothing like this homely old body, in comfortable tweeds with a flop of greying blonde hair. Hesitantly, she stepped over to the chair and lowered herself into it. It was horribly comfortable. An heirloom, probably. Perhaps that was what Mother liked about him - all those creature comforts of her childhood that she had had to abandon. "Th-thank you."

No use being ruder to him than I have to be, I suppose.

"Shall I ring for tea?" he asked. "Or would you prefer a glass of sherry?"

Marigold shook her head tightly. "No, thank you."

He turned to the sideboard and lifted the tantalus, saying over his shoulder as he did so, "Well, I will, if you don't mind."

"N-not at all." She twisted her neck uncomfortably to keep him in her line of sight as he poured himself a small glass, set the tantalus back in its place, and finally settled himself in the armchair opposite hers. Marigold drew her feet back to make room for his own larger ones. Heavens, he really was tall, wasn't he?

Sir Anthony set his glass down on the side table, rested his chin on his hand, and asked, very seriously, "Now, what can I do for you?"

Marigold swallowed. She hadn't expected to be asked such a question, so bluntly. Still, she was her mother's daughter, and Crawley women had never been shy and retiring.

"I'm here to tell you to leave my mother alone."

He said nothing for moment, only lifted his glass and took a thoughtful sip of his drink. "Yes, I thought you might be," he replied at length, very casually.

Well! This wasn't how she'd planned for things to go at all. Almost triumphantly, she dug into her pocket and pulled out the reason for this visit.

"And to give you back this." Marigold held out her hand, and when she opened it, it revealed his cufflink to him. Sir Anthony's mouth tightened fractionally, but he smoothed the expression as he reached forwards and took it from her.

"Thank you. I've been looking for that." Idly, he twisted the thing between his fingers, holding it up to the light as if for inspection. His voice was falsely light as he asked, "Wherever did you find it?"

"Under my mother's bed."

He actually winced this time. "Ah. I see."

"Well?" she snapped. "Nothing to say for yourself, Sir Anthony? Not even to deny it?"

He finished the glass of sherry and wondered, "Is there any point in trying?" He put the cufflink safely in his own pocket. "In any case, as to your first object in coming here… I'm terribly sorry, but on this occasion, I shan't be able to oblige you."

"Why not?"

The corner of his mouth twitched up into a faint smile. "Would it sound terribly ridiculous if I said that I'm in love with her?"

In her lap, Marigold's hands clenched together. Slowly, she forced them to relax. She'd let him rattle her - stupid. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe words of love when they're spoken by the men of your family, Sir Anthony."

"Of course. You've no reason to believe me, and I don't ask you to."

Somehow that angered her more than any excuses might have done. "Spare me the Chamberlain impersonation," she spat. "Mother thought he was a useless Prime Minister, and so do I."

He blinked in polite confusion. Damn him! "I'm sorry?"

"Do you honestly think that if you pretend to be conciliatory and - and inoffensive, then you'll be able to trick me in the same way you've obviously tricked my mother?" She sat back in the chair and folded her arms firmly across her chest. "Well, it won't work."

"I haven't tricked her, Marigold." That irritating half-smile again, accompanied by a rueful shake of the head. "She's far too clever to fall for any such thing."

She huffed. "I notice that you don't say anything about your own scruples."

"No. We both know that I didn't scruple to break her heart."

"That's the most honest thing you've said since I arrived."

"I can't say anything to convince you that I can make her happy, of course, and I don't say that I even deserve the chance to try, but… your mother is a grown woman, and should be allowed to make her own decisions, as hard as that might be for you." He met her eyes. "I speak from experience, you understand."

Marigold snorted. "So I should just let her be hurt, should I? When you get bored, or decide that you don't want her any more, or start to think she's too young, or that your injury's an obstacle or - " Angry tears sprang to her eyes and she reached up to bat them away.

"He was hurting too, you know," Sir Anthony said, in a voice that was almost unbearably quiet and gentle. "And that's not to excuse him or the deplorable way he behaved, but he didn't do it… selfishly. He didn't think he was good enough for you, Marigold, that's all."

"This conversation has nothing to do with Flight Lieutenant Chetwood!" she flashed back.

He lifted a bleakly amused eyebrow. "Doesn't it?"

"No. This is about - this is about - " Her chin trembled. "She's mine, do you understand? And I'm not going to let you take her away. Not her too."

"That isn't possible, Marigold. It couldn't be." And then, as the poor child's face suddenly crumpled: "Oh, my dear girl - "

She stood up, preparing to flee, and Anthony rose with her, and reached out his good arm, to squeeze her shoulder, or hand - and Marigold sagged, sobbing, against him. His arm folded around her and awkwardly patted her shoulder, as he manoeuvred them over to the sofa.

There they sat, huddled together for some considerable time, until, at length, Marigold wept herself to exhausted sleep. Anthony settled her head down onto a sofa cushion and tiptoed to the door. Down in the kitchen, he found Stewart enjoying a mid-afternoon cup of tea. "Stewart? Will you telephone Lady Edith and let her know that Assistant Section Officer Crawley is here, and safe, please?"

"Of course, sir."

"And… bring me up a blanket or a quilt or something? And a hot water bottle, and a large glass of brandy. The poor girl's in something of a state."

"Right away, sir."

Anthony paused at the door, warring with himself, and then added: "And… rootle out Dr Hunter's telephone number for me, will you?"

Stewart's face tightened and he gave a single, short nod. "Of course, sir."

"Good chap. Thank you."

When Marigold drifted back into consciousness, there was a pillow under her head and a warm quilt on top of her, and she could hear a softly crackling fire nearby. "Where… what…?" Marigold half-sat up as the memories of the previous hour or so flooded back over her. She buried her thumping head in one hand and groaned out, "Oh, God."

Sir Anthony, kneeling at the side of the sofa, pressed a glass of brandy into her free hand. "There she is. Now, drink this - slow sips, just to warm you through. My cook's making you some luncheon."

As Marigold began to shake her head, he intervened quietly but firmly: "I'm afraid I must insist. When was the last time you ate anything?"

Somehow, she couldn't argue with that voice. "I… last night, I suppose."

"I see. How are you sleeping?"

"Fine." Damn. She'd answered too quickly and she knew it by the way his eyebrow lifted. She covered her confusion by taking a slug of the brandy. Her eyes watered and he pressed a handkerchief into her free hand. Perhaps this is what Mother likes about him.

Calmly, he pointed out, "Those circles under your eyes, and the, ah, impromptu afternoon nap would suggest otherwise."

Marigold could feel herself shifting uncomfortably; the fingers of her free hand twisted at the corner of the quilt and she forced them to stop. "It's just the long shifts, that's all." Keep telling yourself that, Marigold.

"Mmm." He shrugged a little. "Intelligence work does that to a body, I'm afraid."

Marigold sat up a little straighter under the quilt. "I can't talk about my work, sir."

"No, of course not." He raised a soothing hand. "But I think you ought to talk to a doctor. I can recommend someone, if you'd like."

The empty brandy glass slipped from Marigold's suddenly limp hands, tumbling to her lap. Anthony collected it and placed it on the side-table as Marigold whispered, almost too quietly to hear, "A d-doctor? D-do - do you think I'm going mad?"

"Why would I think that, my dear?"

"B-because I think I am…" (Marigold's hands sketched vague shapes in the air) "Because…because I can't s-sleep. I can't eat properly. I feel… sh-shaky all the time. My b-brain feels all f-foggy - and I get c-cross about s-stupid things…"

"That doesn't sound like madness." Sir Anthony slowly rose to his feet with a soft oof! of effort, and settled into the armchair next to the sofa. "In fact, it sounds to me like a perfectly sane and rational response to a highly pressurised and untenable situation." He pulled his pipe out of his pocket, clamped it into his mouth and began to fill it one-handed. Around the stem, he offered, "I was in Intelligence myself, you know, during the last show. Your mother probably didn't tell you that. Did a bit of casual work for GC&CS afterwards, too. All diplomatic traffic, really. Met a few interesting people, though." Marigold could sense him watching her carefully as he added, "I was at a shooting party* with a lot of them, just before the War began but, ah, well, I'm getting on, and it's not the sort of thing that old fellows like me are really up to anymore. Much better left to bright young things like you."

"H-how did you know?" Marigold whispered.

"Nothing you did or said wrong, I promise. Jim said once that you were stationed somewhere in Buckinghamshire and then your mama mentioned you were doing something hush-hush, and… well, it was just a well-informed guess, really. You're doing very admirable and important work, my dear." As Marigold absorbed that, he added, "I'll write down the name of my doctor. Who's your commanding officer?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that."

His face softened. "All right. But when you speak to him - or her, I suppose, what do I know? - tell them that you've spoken to someone who was shell-shocked during the last show, and he thinks you've a touch of combat fatigue. In fact, leave it a day or so, and we'll see what Dr Hunter says about it all. You're on leave still, is that right?"

Marigold absorbed this in silence for a moment, and then dried her eyes. "Y-yes. B-but… I c-can't have combat fatigue. I haven't been in battle," she whispered shyly. "Not like J-Jim has. Not like you were."

"No," he agreed. "But… brains are odd things, you see, and when you put them under a lot of strain - in the way that your brain has been, or my brain was - they have this horrid tendency to… crumble a bit. I think all you probably need is a good long rest. I'll talk to your mother, when she arrives."

Marigold's face turned, if that were possible, even paler than it was already. "Oh, God. Have you spoken to her? Did you tell her… wh-what I said to you?" At Anthony's apologetic expression, Marigold lay back and closed her eyes. "She'll kill me," she muttered.

Anthony chuckled. "She'll only be glad that you're safe, my dear. I promise. Now, why don't you try to sleep a bit more, hmm? I'll see you're not disturbed."

At the door, he was stopped by Marigold's quiet voice. "Sir Anthony?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Thank you."

Edith flung herself into Anthony's arm as soon as Stewart had opened the door. "Is she all right?!"

Anthony kissed her forehead as Stewart helped her off with her coat. "Sleeping the sleep of the blameless in front of the library fire. Just needed a good cry, I think, my sweet one. And if you're agreeable, I'd like to telephone my doctor, just to look her over."

"Yes, of course, thank you." She turned a harassed, grateful smile on Stewart. "You too, Stewart." Her hand found Anthony's and squeezed. "And… I'm so sorry." Shamefaced, she admitted, "She inherited her awful temper from me, I'm afraid."

"Not at all." Anthony's hand rested on the small of her back as he guided her towards the library. "You and she have been on your own for so long, it's perfectly natural that she should… view me with suspicion. Don't think any more of it." He opened the door for her, and stood back to let her pass. "I'll leave you to talk."

Marigold woke again to a soft hand stroking her curls back from her swollen, damp face. She blinked open her eyes and waited as the blur beyond slowly solidified into something she could process. "Mother?"

"Hello, my sweet girl." Mother smiled down at her. "Had a nice sleep?"

"Mmmm…" Then Marigold recalled where she was and tried to sit up. Her mother pushed her firmly back down under the quilt that was covering her. "Did Sir Anthony tell you - ?"

"Yes, my dear."

Marigold let out a damp chuckle and her mother's handkerchief wiped away the fresh tears from her cheeks. "I'm s-sorry I didn't tell you about the cufflink."

Her mother's hand only became more gentle. "And I'm sorry I didn't tell you that he'd been there. Whatever else, the flat is your home too and you should have at least some say in what goes on there." Edith took a deep breath. "And if you'd prefer it if he didn't… stay there again, then… that can be arranged."

"No." Marigold shook her head firmly. "No, of course not. You own the place. I was cross and taking it out on you and him, rather than directing it at its proper place, and that was unfair." She paused. "Sir Anthony's been so kind. He must have been furious inside, but he never let on at all."

"That's the sort of chap he is, I'm afraid." Her mother's eyes twinkled. "Thoroughly maddening, isn't it?"

Marigold grinned sheepishly. "A bit. But… he's jolly nice, too, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is." Edith's face sobered. "Now, tell me about this sleeplessness, please."

AN: *In 1938, 150 men and women arrived at a country house in Buckinghamshire, ostensibly as attendees of 'Captain Ridley's shooting party.' They were actually there to set up the British government's cryptographic operations in preparation for the Second World War. The name of the house was Bletchley Park.