The nicest dress in the nicest dress shop in York was a blush pink rayon with a rather low neckline and a sweeping skirt that hit just at Marigold's knee. Without Mrs Cox's coupons, it would have been no go. With them, Marigold was still looking at a rather lean few months ahead. But it was Christmas, she supposed. And it was having rather an effect on some of her mother's male guests, as predicted.

"Heavens," Jim exhaled next to her. "You look… jolly nice."

"Thank you." She had a suspicion that Jim had been avoiding her ever since he had arrived. Not that she could blame him. Now that they weren't at daggers drawn with each other any more, perhaps he was worried that she would try to latch on to him again. And there wasn't any way that she could reassure him that she understood the lie of the land perfectly well without making an absolute idiot of herself in the process. Instead, she added, "Mrs Cox gave me some of her coupons for Christmas, so I spent them on this. Isn't she just the nicest person you've ever met?"

"Yes, she is." Jim lifted the glass in his hand. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Mmm, please. Anthony gave us something yummy with dinner last night that his father laid down - did you know he was a - a whatsit?" She gestured impatiently with her hand. "Oh, you know, a - a - "

"An oenophile?" Jim wondered, amused. "Oh, yes, Grandfather was famous for it."

"And jolly good at it, too, I think!" Marigold pulled a face and added, "Mind you, he does look rather stern, in that painting in the gallery."

"Ask Uncle Anthony to let you peek at some of my grandmother's diaries sometime." Jim's eye twinkled mischievously down at her. "That will… how shall I put it? Disabuse you of that notion. The way Granny wrote about him… well, let's just say it explains where Uncle Anthony got his charm." At Marigold's half-scandalised laugh, his grin only deepened. "Anyway, let's go and hunt down a glass for you." And then maybe you'll let me dance with you…

But as they crossed the room, a voice hailed him: "Jim! I say, Jim, come and say hello to the Forresters!"

Marigold looked about and found the voice's owner: Archie Chetwood. Jim's face creased with frustration.

"Marigold - damn, Forrester's the Lord Lieut., I - I really should - "

"Of course you should. As your uncle's heir." Marigold squeezed his arm. "Go on, don't keep your father waiting. Plenty of time for that drink later, hmm?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"Sir," Marigold wondered, "who's the dark haired chap in the dinner suit? Next to the lady in green?"

"Hmm? Oh, that's Charles Gervas - his parents are old friends of mine." Anthony twinkled down at her. "Shall I introduce you?"

"Why not?" Marigold smiled at him. "No one ever mentioned that when you got a stepfather, he'd try and find you a beau, too." She lifted an eyebrow. "Or are you just worried that a long face two months' after the wedding will spoil the mood?"

Anthony squeezed her hand. "Your mother and I happen to like your face just as it is, my dear, very much."

Marigold smiled and kissed his cheek. "That's very sweet of you. Sir… would you mind awfully if I called you 'Anthony'? Or - or 'Uncle Anthony'?"

"I'd be delighted, my dear. Now, let me introduce you to Charlie, hmm?"

"Who's that talking to Marigold?" Jim wondered at Anthony's shoulder.

"Hmm?" Anthony's voice was carefully unconcerned. "Oh, Charlie Gervas. Lord and Lady Gervas's youngest boy."

"Not in uniform, I notice." Jim's voice, in contrast to his uncle's, was stiff, cold and decidedly disapproving.

"No, he's doing some work for the War Office at home."

Jim's lip curled and he took a cross sip of his wine. "Nice work if you can get it, I suppose."

Anthony huffed out a soft laugh. "I didn't think green was your colour at all."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Jim snapped moodily.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, my boy." His uncle clapped him gently on the shoulder. "You could go and talk to her yourself, you know."

"I have talked to her." Jim's voice was clipped. "Three times now. Once at the engagement dinner, and again for a whole ten minutes at the wedding, and then this evening too. I just don't want her getting herself tangled up with a - a shirker." He shot a dark look over at Gervas. "And besides, I don't like the look of the chap. Shifty, if you ask me."

Anthony shrugged. "Well, have it your own way, I suppose. But… well, you… fit together, somehow. And that's a rare thing to be wasting, Jim."

"You're watching very intently," Edith smiled to Anthony. Her husband had been scanning over their guests for the last few minutes, like a shepherd watching his flock. "Lurking on the fringes like a wallflower."

"Not a wallflower," Anthony protested, "just a staid old married man, my darling."

Edith hummed, pleased, and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. "So - a success, do you think?"

"An absolutely roaring one." He turned his chin and kissed the top of her head. "Happy?"

"You keep asking me that," Edith murmured. Her hand trailed down his lapel, back and forth.

"Just making sure. Are you?"

"Blissful. And you?"

Anthony turned and stroked a loose curl away from her forehead. "Oh, my dearest one… Pinching myself every time I look at you."

"Good." Edith smirked. "I'd hate it if you got complacent. Now, tell me who you're watching."

Anthony turned her about to face the room again. "Marigold and Charlie Gervas."

Across the room, Anthony and Marigold's eyes met. Anthony lifted a single eyebrow, Marigold's lips twitched and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Anthony shrugged lopsidedly and lifted his glass to her.

Edith looked between them, half-wonderment, half-amusement. "And what was that little bit of pantomime about?"

"Hmm? Oh, I thought Charlie might hit it off with Marigold, but it's no-go, apparently."

"Oh. Nice of you to try."

"Thank you." Quietly, he confided, "Jim didn't think so."

Edith smirked. "Oh, is that what's going on? I've just had him asking me whether or not I think Charlie could be a Fifth Columnist - honestly!" At Anthony's bark of laughter, she wondered, "Are you meddling? Because if you are… well, I'm just glad that they're on speaking terms again, and capable of holding five minutes' civilised conversation with each other. I think anything more will take a little longer to achieve."

"I haven't the least notion what you mean, my sweet one." At Edith's doubtful look, he added, "Now, it's Christmas, and there's a rather large bunch of mistletoe hanging up in the hall, and I don't believe you and I have had the pleasure yet…"

It was fully three-quarters of an hour before Marigold managed to escape from Charlie Gervas. Really, she didn't think a duller dullard had ever breathed air. Fortunately, Jim was easy enough to spot in a crowd - a head of striking blonde hair, over six feet of height, and the RAF dress uniform made him rather hard to miss. "Hello, you," she announced at his shoulder.

He grinned down at her. "Hello - again. You… look nice." His nose wrinkled. "Sorry, I've already said that, haven't I?"

"Yes, but that's all right. I don't think any woman tires of hearing that compliment. So do you, as it happens." She glanced down. "How are the hands? I'm sorry, I didn't ask earlier."

"Getting there, thank you." He lifted one and wiggled each individual finger. "I can even manage cutlery and cups of tea, if I'm careful. Thank goodness, because I'm going to have to give a rather public demonstration at lunch tomorrow, by all accounts."

"Good for you, though. That's such nice news to start the new year with." Her eyes shone with sincerity - and then the smile faded as she looked over his shoulder. "Oh, hell…"

Jim frowned. "What is it?"

"Charlie Gervas," Marigold grimaced. "I've honestly never met a more boring man. And now he's heading this way…"

Looking for some reason rather pleased with himself, Jim took her hand before she knew what he was doing, and pulled her towards the doors onto the terrace. "Jim?!"

He glanced down at her high heels. "Can you dash in those shoes?"

She tipped her chin back indignantly. "I can dash in anything, Jim Chetwood."

"Well, come along then." He almost yanked her down the terrace steps. "This way. I hid in these gardens dozens of times as a boy…"

Together, they dashed along the edge of the lawn, staying in the shadow cast by the house, and then ducked through the archway into the orchard, giggling and breathless. Jim pressed her gently against the wall, leaning around the bricks to peer out into the garden. "Is he gone?" Marigold whispered, inches from his uniform lapel.

"Shhh. No, he's on the terrace," Jim murmured back. Marigold shivered a little.

"Well, I hope he hurries up and goes back inside. It's jolly chilly out here. Wish I'd worn my uniform, now." Jim swung off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, then hugged her close for good measure. Just for a minute. Just until she warms up.

"Better?" he wondered.

"Much, thank you." Marigold drew back a little, just to tip her chin up to look him in the eye. "Ummm… we probably shouldn't be doing this, you know. Cuddling in a dark garden. People might get the wrong idea." Despite her words, though, Marigold hadn't let go of him, and Jim took heart from that.

"Well, we're friends, aren't we?" he reasoned. "Nothing wrong with a friendly hug, is there?"

"Mmm. I s'pose not." She pretended to think for a moment. "Or… or a friendly peck on the cheek? You know, Christmas luck?"

"Of course not," Jim smiled.

Her mouth brushed his cheek, purposefully hitting the most scarred side of his face, just under the eye-patch.

"Or - oh, hang it all, M…" Jim turned his head and caught her mouth with his. Marigold sighed into the embrace, Jim felt her lips part under his, and then they were kissing again, the most natural, comfortable, warm embrace he could possibly imagine. "You're lovely," he mumbled into her hairline as he feathered more kisses over her forehead, before returning to her delicious lips. "So lovely."

"Oh, darling Jim…" Her hands buried themselves in his hair as their tongues tangled together, hers hitting just the sweet spot that could make him melt away.

Jim groaned and found his knee between her legs as his hand slid under her skirt. Marigold's head fell back in bliss - her own hands were yanking his shirt out of his trousers and working at his belt-buckle with admirable, enthusiastic determination.

Jim didn't think he'd ever wanted anyone the way he wanted Marigold just now.

It was madness - contemplating a hasty liaison against an unpleasantly damp wall with the girl he was meant to be in love with - but he knew that he was past rational thought at this point in the proceedings.

"Oh, M… God, I love you," he rasped against her throat. Marigold could feel his fingers feathering the top of one of her stockings, teasing the line between fabric and flesh in a way that was making her deliciously dizzy. "I'll never love anyone the way I love you, darling - "

Her hands fell away from him, she shoved down the skirt of her dress, and as she pulled back Jim was horrified to see, in the starlight, that there were tears in her eyes.

"Oh, God, Marigold, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - "

"No, I'm all right. It's not you." She brushed away her tears with a wrist that shook. "You didn't do anything I didn't want. I just… can't do this again. Listen to all your lovely promises and then watch you break them as soon as things get even the slightest bit difficult. I'm s-sorry, Jim."

"You won't lose me. Marigold… marry me."