Sir Anthony's Mrs Cox, Marigold thought, looked rather normal for a woman that everyone seemed to respect so much. Barely topping five feet, she was plump and stooping, with weathered hands, a voluminous apron and a scarf holding back her curly, grey hair. Just an ordinary old lady.

And then she opened her mouth.

"Now, come inside, both of you, and let me look at you!" Mrs Cox ordered firmly, beady dark eyes fixed on them as if daring either of them to argue.

"Goodness," Marigold murmured in an undertone to her mother as they entered the stone-flagged hall and wiped their feet, "I've had WAAF instructors less terrifying."

"Better get used to it, darling," Edith smiled, hooking her arm through Marigold's and squeezing. "I rather think Mrs Cox has appointed herself your C.O."

They followed Mrs Cox into the coach-house's expansive, warm kitchen, where a large, scrubbed wooden table surrounded by four chairs dominated the space. A brindled cat was curled up on a cushion by the fire, asleep, and on the large old-fashioned range a kettle was humming away on the boil.

"Right, luncheon will be served in ten minutes, my lady. Will you sit in here, or in the dining room?" And then, without pausing: "In here, I suppose - you'll have been frozen to death on that train, and the fire's larger…" She turned to the range and poured water into the teapot to warm it. "Woolton pie," she added over her shoulder as she did so, "plenty for both of you."

"Oh, I don't think I'm very hung- " Marigold began, but Mrs Cox turned properly and fixed her with another of those steely glares, making her fall silent.

"We'll have none of that, thank you. Three square meals a day is what you need, my girl. And," she turned on Edith, who was hiding a smile behind her hand, "I don't know what you're smirking at, my lady! The same goes for you - thinking you can live off coffee and cigarettes and boiled eggs and I don't know what else!" Mrs Cox turned back to her oven, with the air of a woman who believes she has been put in charge just in the nick of time.

Marigold didn't think she'd ever met anyone like Mrs Cox - except perhaps Mrs Patmore, the cook Granny and Donk had had when she'd been a very little girl, and who still occasionally came to cook on special occasions for her cousin George, now that he was the Earl. Still, she wasn't entirely sure how one responded to someone so apparently intransigent.

Edith came to Marigold's rescue. "Marigold and I will go through to the sitting room, hmm, Mrs Cox? Get out from under your feet for a moment. Come along, darling."

In the sitting room, Marigold exhaled noisily and sat down on the settle with a thump. "Heavens. I thought she was going to eat us up!"

Edith sat down too, smiling with satisfaction. "Yes. So did I. Isn't she just the most wonderful person you've ever met?"

"Telephone call for you, my lady." Maisie, Mrs Cox's niece, bobbed a brief curtsey in Edith's direction. She'd never waited on anyone so grand as an Earl's daughter and granddaughter, and two days was hardly sufficient time to have got used to it. "Sir Anthony, calling from London."

"Thank you, Maisie. I'll come along straight away." Edith set aside her book as Marigold looked up from her knitting - a particularly tricky looking Fair Isle jumper pattern that Mrs Cox had lent her. ("What you need is something to do with that brain of yours to stop it fretting it away at itself, my girl…") Marigold had walked into the village that afternoon for wool, gulping in big lungfuls of country air with surprising cheerfulness, and then spent the evening thus far delightedly wrestling with it.

"Give him my best wishes, won't you?" she asked, and her mother kissed the top of her head as she passed by.

"Of course, my darling." Edith grinned mischievously. "After I've given him mine, that is."

Marigold rolled her eyes. "I hope you know," she called after her mother, "that people in love are terribly boring!"

Edith's laugh floated back to her down the corridor. Marigold sat back, tucking her wool down the side of the armchair and smiling to herself. It was rather nice to hear Mother laughing like that, she had to admit. And this chair was rather comfortable, too. And she'd had several good meals, and even started to warm towards Mrs Cox. This knitting pattern was fiendishly good, as well.

Perhaps this month of rest wasn't going to be so very awful after all.

Edith picked up the 'phone eagerly and propped herself against its table, feeling more like a woman of Marigold's age than she had any right to. "Hello - Anthony?"

"Ah, Lady Edith, good. I just thought I'd telephone to make sure that you and Miss Marigold had settled in and - "

"Don't worry, darling," Edith interrupted, "there's no one listening - and between you and me, I think Mrs Cox already knows what's going on." Certainly, there had been several leading questions asked in that direction, since they had arrived. "I suppose you've been seeing quite a bit of the master just lately, what with one thing and another, my lady?" and "I hope as you had a pleasant stay the last time you were at Locksley?" and so forth. Yes, Mrs Cox certainly knew what was going on.

"Oh, thank goodness," Anthony sighed down the 'phone. "I thought I was going to have to be awfully formal, just in case."

Edith chuckled. "Poor darling! Oh, it's so lovely to hear your voice."

"And yours. Is Marigold all right?"

"Doing battle with a knitting pattern. She'll be fast asleep by ten - sends her best wishes. You were absolutely right - this was just what she needed."

"Well, what a recommendation." She could hear him smiling, she was convinced. Then his voice softened and deepened and went all quiet as he asked, "And you? Are you all right?"

It had been a long time, before Anthony had turned up again, since anyone had asked Edith that question. Just now, she wasn't sure if she was ever going to get used to being asked it again. "I'm fine. Pottered about in the garden here for a bit, finished off my column, telephoned Cynthia. Nothing terribly exciting."

"Everything running smoothly in Town?"

"I think so." Everything had sounded under control, anyway - in fact, Geoffrey's precise words (after he'd wrestled the telephone from his co-editor) had been: "Stop being such a fusspot, Edith! You're worse than a mother on her first evening out after giving birth!" Crude, perhaps, but quite possibly true. She was trying not to fret, and rationally, she knew that Yorkshire, with Marigold, was where she was needed most just now… but the magazine was a bit like a second child, and if anything happened to it…

"Anyway," she continued, trying to be sensible, "Cynthia and Geoffrey haven't murdered each other or set the place on fire yet, so that's a good sign, I suppose."

"I'm sure it is," he reassured her. "They care an awful lot about you, and the magazine - they wouldn't do anything foolish." Bracingly, he added, "And if that doesn't reassure you, well, it's their jobs on the line too if anything goes awfully wrong, isn't it?"

Edith let out a sigh. "No, you're right. You're absolutely right. Let's change the subject: how are you?"

"Oh, muddling along. The house is rather empty, now that Jim's gone back on duty. The RAF weren't keen on losing him, and I think he's reconciled himself to a desk job, especially when he realised it meant he could move back to base and feel a little more normal. So Archie and I have just been behaving like the old men we are - all very staid. Chess and the newspaper and the BBC Home Service."

"Well, that's a relief," Edith teased. "I'm missing you awfully, you know."

"And I you." Lightly, he added, "I'm… coming up for the end of term prize giving at the school at the end of next week, you know. I could… pop in? Or… take you out? Not for very long, I know you'll be busy with Marigold, but we could slip away for an hour or two?"

"That sounds heavenly. I'll look forward to it." Down the hall, she heard the clock chime the hour. "And on that note, I ought to go."

"Of course, you must be exhausted. God bless, my darling - sweet dreams. I love you."

"I love you, too. Goodnight, dearest - I'll see you next week."

The next afternoon, after Marigold had been sent firmly upstairs for a nap with a cup of cocoa and a spice biscuit, Edith and Mrs Cox sat in the kitchen, in the fireside chairs. It all had a slightly unsettling sense of déjà vu about it, really: this was not, after all, the first time Edith had sat and been mothered in a kitchen run by Mrs Cox. They'd done a lot of that, before the wedding-that-wasn't - sitting and talking and drinking tea, when Anthony was busy with paperwork, or had had to run out to one of the farms or to see his agent. Mrs Cox had told her stories of 'the master' as a young boy, bolstered her with snippets of knowledge about Locksley traditions and 'the way things were done', even allowed her to help with the cooking, once or twice, and Edith had felt as if she had an ally, among all of the people crowding round to tell her why Anthony was such a bad idea. Underneath it all, the old cook had seemed to be saying: You want to look after him, and I want to help.

And then none of it had happened.

Funny, to think they were in nearly the same position again, twenty years later - except everything was looking so much brighter this time.

"I wanted to thank you, Mrs Cox," Edith said, "for everything you're doing for Miss Marigold. Much as she'd hate to admit it, this is absolutely what she needs, just now."

"Away with you, my lamb," Mrs Cox flapped a dismissive hand. "I'm glad to do whatever I can - for any girl of yours." Her eyes were sharp and perceptive as she peered over the tops of her spectacles at Edith. "Frightening likeness to you - for an adoptive daughter."

Edith looked away, a sudden leaden feeling thunking! into the bottom of her stomach. "Wh-when did you realise?" she whispered.

"The moment she walked through the door, of course," Mrs Cox replied softly. "Her hair, her eyes, her voice… oh, she's the image of you, my lamb. The master knows, I suppose."

"Yes, he does." Edith swallowed. "He's been… well, you know what he's like."

"I know he'd walk over hot coals for you. And for your lass too, by now, I'll be bound." Mrs Cox shook her head fondly. "Always had a weakness for creatures in distress, from a boy up. Her father died, I think she mentioned?"

"Yes. W-when Marigold was quite, quite small."

"And left you all alone. Oh, my lamb…"

"I'm all right." Edith stood and took her empty mug to the sink, quite unable to look her old friend in the eye. "I know you probably d-don't approve, Mrs Cox, and I very much appreciate - "

"Hush, now." Mrs Cox's warm hand covered hers as she came to stand next to her. "You're not the first lass to stumble a bit out of wedlock and you certainly won't be the last. And by all accounts, your Miss Marigold's a girl to be proud of. So you just stop talking nonsense, my lady - and if you want to make yourself useful, you can peel those apples for me."

Edith laughed through silly, sudden tears. "Y-yes, Mrs Cox."

"And don't cry all over them, neither!"

"N-no, Mrs Cox."

At the end of her first week in Yorkshire, Marigold woke up with a feeling of odd, generalised lightness all through her. It took her a moment to realise that it was contentment. Rather nice. She lay there for a moment, staring up at the peaceful white ceiling and the cheery watercolour of Locksley Hall in summertime that hung on the wall opposite, and listening to the birds greeting the early morning and smiled to herself.

The cheerful mood seemed inclined to last, too. "Good morning, Mrs Cox," she grinned as she swung into the kitchen. "Where's Mother? I looked in the study but she wasn't there."

"No - gone for a walk into the village, I think." Mrs Cox nudged the teapot and a cup and saucer across the table to Marigold's usual seat. "Sit down and I'll fetch your breakfast. I think we might just be able to stretch to bacon and eggs this morning, if you're not inclined to ask too closely about the origins of the pig."

Marigold held her finger up to her lips solemnly. "But Mrs Cox," she protested innocently, "what pig would that be?"

Mrs Cox nodded approvingly and set her frying pan on to heat through.

As she ate, Marigold ventured, "You must have known my mother quite well, when she was young, Mrs Cox." She didn't know many people who could say that, after all; not people who really seemed to know what Mother was like inside, anyway. Over the last few weeks, she had started to realise that she and her mother perhaps had more in common than she had ever suspected. It had been a rather painful realisation, in some places. Foolish to pass up the chance of the full picture, when it was offered.

"I did." Mrs Cox grinned suddenly. "And she hasn't changed a bit - not like some folk when they get older. Oh, she and the master used to sit in his library for hours - laughing, talking, drives, concerts…! You never knew what was coming next, with those two." Her expression softened into something more serious. "Mind you, when she came along, we'd almost despaired of him ever smiling again, after his wife died. Lady Maude, that'd be - and all their little ones."

Mother didn't tell me that. I wonder why not? Would I have liked him any better at the start, if I'd known? Inwardly, Marigold shrugged to herself. Probably not. I don't think I wanted to like anyone then, let alone someone related to - to You-Know-Who. "He's a very nice man," Marigold agreed, for something to say, and then, all in a rush, "I'm afraid I was rather rude to him, before we left London. I… I didn't realise how much he likes Mother. I thought he was just… stringing her along, for a lark, you know."

Mrs Cox gave her a look that suggested this was one of the silliest things she'd ever heard. Marigold buried her face in one hand. "I know," she sighed, before Mrs Cox could find words to match the look.

Still: "He's always thought a good deal about your mother, young lady, so don't you go supposing otherwise." Mrs Cox stirred a precise half-spoonful of sugar into her tea, as if for emphasis, and then went on, "Well, he's got a thick skin, I suppose, and he doesn't hold grudges, neither. Bit like young Mr Jim, that way."

Marigold dropped the fork she was holding.

Mrs Cox continued as if nothing had happened. "Yes, alike as two peas in a pod, they are. Nice gentlemen, both of them, very clever, but always worrying about everything and everyone else."

Well, she's right there. About Jim, if nothing else. "Y-yes. That sounds about right."

Mrs Cox looked hard at her. "Mmm. It'd drive a body mad to live with, I'm sure - if it weren't for all the advantages, of course."

"Yes." Marigold chewed her lip. "Whoever marries Flight Lieutenant Chetwood will be a very lucky woman indeed."

Mrs Cox heaved herself up from the table and began to fill the sink for washing up. "But that's all water under the bridge with you, isn't it?"

"Yes." Marigold's voice was firm. "Absolutely. All water under the bridge."

Still, it made her think. About other people who might like to marry soon, that was. Not about her and Jim - after all, as she'd said to Mrs Cox, that was all over and done with. Perhaps she wouldn't marry at all. Jim would, obviously; he'd find a pretty nurse or something, someone sensible and bland, and settle down to boring domesticity - but not her.

Perhaps she'd go off after the War and be one of those exciting spinsters who travelled the world and wrote books and bought expensive gowns and houses, all with their own means. Perhaps she'd have a scandalous love affair or two - no consequences, of course: there were some family traditions that didn't need to be kept up - and whenever she did, she'd stay at impossibly glamorous hotels, under false names.

Yes, all of that sounded much better than a dull little life as Mrs James Chetwood - or, worse still, in the fullness of time, as Lady Strallan. All of that was much more in Mother's line than in hers.

So: "Are you going to marry Sir Anthony?" Marigold asked her mother over dinner one evening.

Edith chewed her last bite of mock brains, and considered. "What would you say if... I told you I was?"

"Oh!" Marigold set down her cutlery and leaned forwards across the table. "Has he asked you, then?"

"Yes." Edith shrugged, thoroughly unrepentant, and added, "I'd be perfectly content to live in sin with him, but he's old-fashioned about these sorts of things and - "

"And he wants you to be his wife." Marigold sniffed. "Good."

"Really?" Edith's voice was very gentle.

"Yes." Marigold chewed her bottom lip. "I'm… glad he respects you enough to offer. Does he make you happy?"

"Very happy." Her mother reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Thank you for asking so nicely. So… you wouldn't mind?"

Marigold rolled her eyes. "Because of James?" Why is everyone so insistent on dragging him up today?

Edith winced. "I was trying not to mention him."

"And you didn't." Marigold swallowed. "Do you remember when I was small, Mother, and you didn't have hardly a minute to yourself, between me and the office? You've… you've put me first, always, and now - well, now, I think it's time you put yourself first instead. So… don't worry about me. I'm - I'm very happy for you. For you both."