"Yes, darling, all right. We'll see you when we see you. And give my love to Marigold."

Cynthia set the telephone down on its rest and sat back in her chair, exhaling. Well! That hadn't been the telephone call she'd been expecting at all.

The office door was flung open and in marched Geoffrey, with a pipe clamped between his teeth, carrying a stack of newspapers with a tea-tray balanced on top of the whole lot. At the look on Cynthia's face, he set down the tray and papers on his desk and turned to frown down at her.

"Are you all right, Gilchrist? You look as if you've just… well, I don't know what."

Cynthia managed a faint smile; from Geoffrey, that was what passed for concern. "No, I'm fine. That was Edith, on the telephone."

"Everything all right her end?"

"Yes. Look… Geoffrey, I've got something to tell you, and I think you ought to be sitting down for it…"

Edith hummed as she checked her hair in the mirror - something bright and lively by Mr Miller and his Orchestra. It was Friday and in (she checked Mrs Cox's carefully wound mantelpiece clock) two hours and twenty minutes she would be seeing Anthony.

"You're sounding very bright and breezy," Marigold said suspiciously from behind her, "for someone who's going to spend her afternoon handing out cups of tea and slices of carrot cake to gushing parents and grubby schoolboys."

Edith shot her one of what Marigold privately termed 'her Looks' - not easy while applying lipstick. Top marks for trying anyway, though, Mother. "Well, I was born and raised in the countryside. Born and raised to do this, as it happens. And… well, I'm realising I rather enjoy it." Edith had been roped into the local WVS, since they'd been in Yorkshire, all organising refugees and canteens and knitting for the forces - and of course, when it came down to teas for the end-of-term prize giving at the school billeted at Locksley… Marigold seriously suspected Mrs Cox's involvement; clearly, she wasn't the only one who had been taken under the elderly cook's wing. Well, good. Mother needed more friends.

"Sir Anthony will be pleased."

Her mother couldn't hide the faint blush around her cheekbones as she smoothed down the cornflower blue cotton of her dress, adjusting the fit slightly around her décolletage. (Vaguely, Marigold wondered precisely how many of this year's clothing coupons* her mother had blown on that.) "I'm not sure I've thought of it." Too casually, Edith added, "Oh, by the way… did I mention he's giving out the prizes today?"

"You didn't. It must have slipped your mind." Marigold's voice was dry. "But it helps to explain some things."

"Such as?"

Marigold raised an eyebrow. "Such as the posh frock, the lipstick, and the sudden urge to be helpful." At Edith's embarrassed huff of laughter, Marigold kissed her cheek. "It's nice, Mother, honestly."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really." Marigold turned away to pour herself a cup of tea. Quietly, she wondered, "Will he be… staying the night here, do you think?"

Edith, rummaging in her bag to check she had everything, smiled absently. "Try suggesting that to Mrs Cox, why don't you? Just make sure I'm not in the house when you do. On which note, I must fly." She snapped the bag clasp shut, kissed Marigold's cheek and unhooked her coat from its peg. "Are you coming?"

"Why not?" Marigold rubbed at the faint red imprint that had been left on her cheek. Cheekily, she added, "I'd quite like to see Sir Anthony - or at least his face when he gets an eyeful of you in that dress…"

It was quite an expression, too. Marigold watched him carefully as he entered the church hall - the only place big enough to hold everyone - and removed his hat, and then he looked up, caught sight of Marigold's mother and went utterly still. But he was an intelligence officer still it seemed, because the stillness only lasted for the briefest of moments, before he turned to shake the hand of Mr Blackett, chair of the parish council, and then the only sign that he had seen Mother at all was the tiny smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. Marigold had to give him points for that, she supposed.

She glanced around, and was not at all surprised to see that Mother, pouring a cup of tea for one of the infant school teachers, was wearing an absolutely identical expression.

Edith could feel his eyes on her, all the way through the ceremony, nearly, warm and admiring and at the same time, thoroughly discreet. It was a very long time since she'd put on a nice dress to impress a man, and the effect that it had had on Anthony was pleasing to say the least.

"Are you all right, Edith, my dear?" Mrs Ord, the WI chair and wife of the local vicar, asked at her elbow. "You're looking quite pink about the cheeks. I do hope you aren't sickening for something."

"Yes, Mother," Marigold chimed in, eyes glinting with mischief, "do you feel quite well?"

"Oh, yes, perfectly well, thank you. Just a… sudden flush." Edith lifted the hair up off the back of her neck briefly. "Heavens, isn't it close in here?"

"Not particularly," Mrs Ord returned, shooting a highly amused look across the room towards the stage. "Isn't it lovely to have the lord of the manor back in the village? Adds a certain something to proceedings, doesn't it?"

Edith flushed. Marigold beamed. "Abso-lutely, Mrs O. Shall I go and refill the urn?"

Damn.

Anthony dragged his eyes away from Edith for the fifth time in half as many minutes. Now that the official prize-giving was over, everyone was milling around the church hall - and of course, everyone wanted five minutes with the lord of the manor. Usually, it would be his pleasure. More than that, it was his duty, a duty that had been very firmly impressed on him almost since the cradle. When one was 'on parade', as his father had used to call it, one smiled and shook hands and inquired after tenants' wives and children and ageing parents and behaved in a thoroughly charming manner. Ogling a beautiful woman was most definitely not on the list of requirements - not even if one happened to be desperately in love with her.

Unfortunately, today Anthony was somewhat distracted. In fact, all he wanted to do just now - all he had been wanting to do for the last half an hour at least - was tell the whole bally lot of them to clear out so that he could get even five minutes alone with Edith. Vaguely, he wondered if this was why his mother had always spent these events practically glued to his father's side, her hand tucked peaceably under his arm. Anthony thought that he might be a good deal less unsettled if Edith's hand were under his arm, just now.

"Don't you think so, Sir Anthony?"

With an effort, he turned his back on the tea table, and forced himself to attend to what the vicar was saying. "A-absolutely, Reverend. Quite right."

Heavens only knew what he was agreeing to.

He needed to focus on the job at hand, and not how radiant Edith looked, handing out cups of tea and beaming smiles to everyone within a six foot radius. He certainly needed to stop focusing on how well her soft, womanly curves were filling that exquisite dress.

"Hilary, darling, do stop haranguing Sir Anthony." Iris Ord's silvery, melodious voice, fond and amused, cut her husband off mid-flow. "Plenty of time to talk to him about the refugee fund after church on Sunday, when the poor man isn't exhausted and quite clearly in desperate need of a sit-down and a cup of tea!"

Her husband lifted her hand to his mouth for a brief kiss. "Yes, yes. My dear wife is quite right, Sir Anthony, I've taken up too much of your time."

"Not at all, Reverend."

Iris beamed up at him. "Hello, Sir Anthony. I think Lady Edith has a cup of tea all ready for you. She's been such a tremendous help today."

"I'm… quite sure she has. If you'll excuse me…?"

Anthony forced himself to walk very slowly and steadily towards the tea table. He even stopped to shake hands and exchange greetings with Colonel Hargreaves, commander of the local Home Guard battalion.

And then he was standing there on the other side of the table and she was smiling up at him. "Sir Anthony, hello. What a lovely ceremony."

"Yes, wasn't it?" he managed as she handed over his cup of tea, made just how he liked it. "Hello, Lady Edith, how nice to see you." As he spoke, the door to the kitchen swung open behind her and Marigold came out, wheeling a large urn on a trolley. "And you too, of course, Miss Marigold. I take it you've settled in well?"

"Hello, sir." Abandoning her trolley, rounding the table at a trot, and eschewing his extended hand, Marigold bobbed up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "It's so nice to see you. I say, isn't your Mrs Cox terrific?"

"She'll be pleased to hear you say so."

"Yes." Marigold nodded vigorously. "I hope we'll have time to chat later, sir. Mother, you don't mind if I dash out for ten minutes? Just to change my book at the library? They close at half past."

"Not at all, darling. In fact… start walking home, if you like. You've done more than your share of the work this afternoon - I'm sure the rest of us can cope with the washing up."

As Marigold retreated into the entrance hall, Anthony observed, "I see you've been making yourself busy here. Quite the lady of the manor."

"Yes, well, I… might want to talk to you about that, when you've got a minute."

"Righto." He made himself take two careful sips from his teacup before checking, "Nothing to worry about?"

"Quite the opposite. But it's a conversation you'll want to be in private for, I think." And quite possibly sitting down…

Anthony opened his mouth to ask what that meant, precisely, and then one of the WVS ladies descended on them, wanting cloths for a spillage of tea at the far end of the hall, and Edith gave him an amused, exasperated little smile and vanished into the kitchen to help.

When he next saw her, she was in an apron and a cardigan against the late afternoon chill, up to her elbows in soapy water, doing the washing up in the little kitchen at the back of the church hall. He stood and watched her for a moment, humming to herself as she stacked plates to drain. God, she was the loveliest creature he'd ever seen.

He made his way across the tiny kitchen and wrapped an arm about her from behind, bending his head as he did so to kiss her cheek.

"Hello, my darling."

She sighed contentedly and tipped her head back so that his mouth could reach her neck too. He was only too happy to oblige. "Hello again," she hummed, and his hand squeezed her hip.

"Has everyone else gone home?" he wondered. The last thing he wanted was to be caught canoodling with her in a kitchen. That wouldn't do either of them any credit.

Edith turned in his embrace, and he reached up to tuck a faint wisp of hair, frizzled by the steam from the washing-up water, away from her face. "I think so."

He frowned over her shoulder at the draining board. "And left you with all this?"

"It's only the last bit of washing up," she tutted. Then, seeking to distract him, she added, rather imperiously, "Kiss me again, please."

One-armed, and with a grunt of exertion, he lifted her up onto the kitchen table, ignoring her faint squeak of delighted surprise. At this angle, they were roughly at eye level, the skirt of Edith's dress hitched up and her knees falling apart so that he could stand between them. Through his trousers, he could feel the silkiness of her precious stockings, and the warmth of her thighs beneath. Her damp, water-wrinkled hands came up to cup his cheeks, feathering through the hair around his ears and smoothing it back, and he bent and kissed her, long and slow and lingering. She tasted of tea and currant buns, and something else, something indefinably and indescribably Edith.

When they finally broke apart, Anthony buried his lipstick-stained mouth against her temple. Edith smiled drowsily against his throat. And now came the moment. She might have used any amount of flowery words, but really, what she wanted when it came down to it was: "Marry me."

He made no noise of surprise - did not even draw back to look at her, or ask her if she were sure. The only sign that she had said anything even remotely remarkable or surprising was the faint, brief tightening of his hand on her hip. "Delighted to, my dearest," he said, in a perfectly calm voice. And then, when she laughed and sobbed at once into his collar, he wondered, "Whatever changed your mind?"

"I've missed you," she said simply. "And I realised that I don't want to carry on… procrastinating. I want to be your wife."

"And… London?" he wondered. "The magazine?"

"Sit down and have the last currant bun," she suggested, "and I'll tell you all about it."

She'd telephoned Cynthia the day before, and after they'd chatted about the magazine, and the accounts, Edith asked, "So everything's really been all right?"

"Absolutely fine, darling. Don't tell him I said so, but Geoffrey's been a positive tower of strength. He's been telling every misogynistic printer, board member and junior clerk in sight that I'm in charge and he'll back me to the hilt." Cynthia's voice softened. "I felt rather sorry for Mr Hunt, actually - after all, it's taken him about twenty years to get used to answering to you, and I think adding another female into the mix has rather pushed him over the edge. Anyway, how's Marigold?"

"Much better. She's planning to go back on duty the week after next, all being well. But… well, the thing is… even after that… I wouldn't mind it if you and Geoffrey kept the editor job on a permanent basis."

There was a long silence, as Edith had expected. She couldn't quite believe that she was saying it herself.

At length, Cynthia wondered: "I see. This wouldn't have anything to do with a nice old gent who lives in Yorkshire, would it?"

"Yes, it would, actually." Edith's voice softened. "I'll still write my column, of course, but… I'd rather like to marry 'the nice old gent who lives in Yorkshire', as it happens, and I don't want to waste any more time. He'd hate being in London all year round and never say a word about it, whereas… I don't find that I dislike the countryside life as much as I thought I might. In fact, it's rather lovely." She chewed her lip. "I know it isn't terribly modern - giving up my job for him, but - "

Cynthia tutted. "Stuff and nonsense! It isn't going to be a 'giving up', is it? You'll still write your column, as you say, and you'll still own the place, for God's sake. You're just… balancing it out with other things. Although what Geoffrey will say, I don't know…!"

"Just tell him that I trust you both implicitly, that you make a marvellous team - and that when you both stop dancing around each other and make up your minds to be sensible, the joint salary'll pay for a nice little house in St John's Wood where you can quarrel together to your hearts' content. All right?"

Cynthia let out a snort of laughter, as if the idea of she and Geoffrey setting up house together wasn't perfectly ridiculous. "Yes, darling, all right. We'll see you when we see you. And give my love to Marigold."

When she had finished, Anthony looked frowningly into her eyes. They sat, on opposite sides of the table, his hand held between both of hers, a crumb-ridden plate between them. "And you're sure, my darling? You're sure you won't be bored, after London, after the exciting life you've led there?"

"Not in the least." Edith bent her head and kissed their joined fingers. "This is the best solution to our problem. If anything, all of this has shown me that I'm not as indispensable to the magazine as I might have liked to think. Geoffrey and Cyn have done a sterling job together. I'm not planning to sell the place off or anything, but…Marigold needs me to… to have more time for her than I would have if I carried on as editor. I'll go up to Town once a month or so for board meetings, send in my column by post and for the rest of the time… be your wife."

"Well, I promise that I will do my utmost to make that an… enjoyable occupation." His voice was low and full of wicked promise.

Edith returned his look with one of equal mischief. "I'm quite sure you will. And… no second thoughts on your end?"

"None whatsoever. Now… Church? Registry office? Midnight dash for Gretna?"

Edith laughed in delight. "I'll buy a new hat," she decided, "and let you know."

Mrs Cox cried out in delight when Edith and Anthony told her their news. Marigold didn't say a word but flung her arms around both of their necks together and squeezed frighteningly tight for a moment before drawing back.

"I'm going to open a bottle of something," Mrs Cox decided. "To celebrate. Oh, but Heaven only knows how we'll manage to marry you half-decently what with all this rationing!"

Edith murmured reassurances, and Anthony asked Marigold in a low voice, "Might I have a moment of your time?"

"Of course, sir." Marigold followed him out into the hallway. Once he'd shut the door into the parlour behind them, she asked, "Is this the part where you ask if you have my permission to marry Mother?"

Anthony blinked, looking very much as if the wind had been taken out of his sails. "Oh. Well… yes… I suppose it is."

"I see." She tutted. "You know she'd be furious if she knew you'd asked that question, don't you?"

"Quite probably - but I wanted to anyway."

Marigold shook her head, smiling faintly. "You're a braver man than I am…!" She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, not that you need it - but, yes. You may."

"Thank you very much."

Marigold looked very seriously up at him. "Although, I warn you, we're terribly close and very alike, so you'll believe me when I say that if you do anything that causes her so much as a second's unhappiness, I'll make sure you regret it." She lifted a meaningful eyebrow. "WAAF basic training taught me all sorts of useful things."

Anthony kissed her hand. "My dear, I would expect nothing less."

"Well, that's all right then. Congratulations. And - " Her chin quivered for the briefest of moments, before she pressed on, " - and, of course, if you treat her nicely, I'll do my utmost not to make a nuisance of myself." She shuffled her shoulders uncomfortably. "I doubt you ever planned on a step-daughter."

"I doubt you ever planned on a step-father." He sounded eminently reasonable. "I ought to warn you, though, that I'm awfully old-fashioned." At Marigold's questioning expression, he explained, "When I was a boy, you see, everyone had this idea that when two people married, they became… one person, one… entity. And I've sort of, ah, clung on to that notion. So I'm afraid that the attitude I take towards step-daughters is that their step-fathers ought to love them just as much as their mothers do."

Marigold sniffed noisily and swiped away a tear. "Shoulder to cry on?" Anthony asked, humorously, and Marigold laughed wetly.

"No, thank you, sir." She gave him a watery grin. "I think we've done more than enough of that to be getting on with, haven't we?"

The door open behind Anthony. "What are you two gossiping about out here?" Edith asked from the doorway.

"Oh, nothing." Marigold went to kiss her cheek. "Sir Anthony was just telling me about the olden days, that's all. Congratulations again, Mother."

"Does the groom usually host the engagement dinner?" Marigold asked as she checked the seam on her stockings in the full-length mirror. Edith, applying beetroot juice to her lips*, raised a wry eyebrow. "He does when the bride's dining table only seats four, yes."

"Oh. Right. Is - is James going to be there?"

"Anthony invited him, but you're not sitting together." Seeking to reassure her, Edith added, "And he probably won't come anyway - Staffordshire to London's rather a trek."

"Oh. I see." Marigold turned and straightened her tie. "Do you think I was right to decide to go in uniform? I don't look too… frumpy?" The silk stockings were in fact the only concession she had made to the 'off-duty' nature of the occasion.

"Darling, you look splendid. The modern career girl." Edith stood up and tugged Marigold's lapel straight a touch. "And if James isn't left cursing his utter stupidity in having ever let you go, then that crash must have been more serious than we thought."

"Oh, Mother…" But behind the blush, Marigold was smiling.

Apparently, the trek from Staffordshire to London wasn't so great as all that, because Jim was standing there in Strallan House's hall, with Sir Anthony, when Mr Stewart opened the door to Edith and Marigold.

The engaged couple kissed and exchanged greetings and Marigold and Jim were left to stare at each other, a little warily. He didn't look so knocked-about as Marigold had been expecting; he'd lost that defeated, hang-dog look he'd had when she'd visited him in hospital, and apart from a few extra wrinkles, and the eyepatch, and the scars on his hands and face… he was the same old handsome James Chetwood.

Marigold began to chuck one up* to him and then realised that he was doing the same thing. They paused halfway, laughed a little sheepishly at each other - and the tension eased away.

"Hello, Marigold."

"Hello, Jim." Be the bigger person, she thought to herself and added, "H-how are you?"

"Fine. You?"

"Fine."

"Good." He coughed and gestured behind him. "Look… I'm glad you're here. Will you come into the library for a minute?"

Mother and Sir Anthony were still wrapped up in each other, talking wedding plans. Marigold hesitated and then agreed, "All right."

The library looked much the same as it had when she had accosted Sir Anthony in it just a few short months ago. Through the large bay windows, overlooking the garden, a golden-orange sunset was blooming, the perfect end to a perfect English summer's day. "I just… wanted to say sorry," Jim confessed. "Again. I know I behaved like a bounder."

Marigold lowered herself primly into an armchair, some distance away. "Yes, you did, rather."

"I shouldn't ever have let it get so far as a proposal, I know that now. I had no right to when everything was so - " He stopped and then added very stiffly, "I beg your pardon, most heartily."

She looked him over in silence for a long minute, and found her mouth twitching with faint mirth.

"What is it?" James asked, fidgeting. "Sorry. I… know I look rather a horror, just now. I'll draw the curtains, shall I?"

"Oh, please don't." She stopped him with a raised hand. "It's such a lovely sunset. I'm not horrified, not a bit. It was only - well, with the eyepatch…" Her eyes shone with fun as she continued, "Oh, Jim, you do look a bit - piratical. Rather dashing, actually."

"Um, thank you." He'd gone bright red, and ducked his head to avoid her seeing it, rubbing a sheepish hand over the back of his neck. "We had the Great Unveiling a month or so ago. To see if - well, if I could see anything. You can probably guess how that went. And now things have settled down a little, I've had some skin grafts - I won't bother you with all the gory details. But the quacks thought that I'd start to recover much better from those at home, rather than in hospital, and… well, it's nice to be back on duty."

"Yes, I'm sure it is." Marigold knew that well enough - or at least she could extrapolate, from the feeling of satisfaction that she got from being back on duty.

He nodded. "Even if I am a fully paid up member of the Chair Force these days." This was said rather ruefully, and Marigold suppressed a sigh. Oh, Jim. As if I fell in love with you just because you were one of the glamour boys.

"Anyway, enough rambling on about me… how have you been? Really?" His eye was sharp and concerned and very, very blue.

"Oh, muddling along." The standard response. Keep smiling through, and all that. "Night shifts, mostly. Keeping busy. You know the drill."

He tweaked up his trousers clumsily and sat down opposite her. Hesitantly, he tried, "Uncle Anthony said… you hadn't been feeling quite the thing."

Marigold swallowed and met his gaze steadily. "Yes, that's right. Touch of combat fatigue, that's all. Consequence? A month of complete bed rest - thoroughly boring."

"And now? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Jim." She glanced behind her to the door. "I wonder where Mother and Sir Anthony can have got to?"

"Welcoming guests, I think. Can - can I offer you some tea? S'pose it's a bit early for a cocktail," James wondered nervously.

"Yes. All right."

"I can just about manage to push the bell," he confessed, rising to do so, "but you might have to pour it, I'm afraid. Frightfully shabby way to treat a guest, I know, but it can't be helped. And… please excuse my drinking it with a straw." He lifted one of his hands for her inspection. "The old fingers can't quite cope with holding the cup steady just yet, you see."

"Oh." Marigold's face took on a thoughtful expression. "Now you come to mention it, that sounds rather fun. Do you think I might have one too?"

"I'm sorry?" James asked.

"A straw. For my tea." She looked at him full-on. "You don't need to try and scare me off, you know. For one thing, it won't work. And for another… well, it isn't as if - " Her voice quivered, just for a moment. "It isn't as if we're engaged any more, after all, is it? We're just… old friends. Or at least I hope we are."

Jim nodded, once, firmly. "Yes. Of course we are."

They drank their tea in companionable silence, and when Edith entered the room to tell them all the guests had arrived, Marigold smiled up at her with clearer, less troubled eyes than she had had for quite some time.

AN:

1: Women did indeed use beetroot juice as a replacement for lipstick, once cosmetics went into short supply.

2: Clothes rationing came into force in the UK in June 1941; initially each person was entitled to 66 clothing coupons per year, but by the end of the war, this had been reduced to 24 coupons for the eight month period between the start of September 1945 to the end of April 1946. (Edith's dress, if you're curious, would have set her back 7 coupons). If you're interested in learning more about this fascinating topic, I highly recommend getting hold of a copy of the book 'Fashion on the Ration' by Julie Summers.

3: To 'chuck/throw one up' is RAF slang for giving a salute.