"What?" Marigold sniffled.

"I said, 'marry me.'" The more he said it, the more certain Jim was that he meant it. "We'll go to Locksley Church tomorrow morning and get the banns read." He frowned. "Will they be open tomorrow?" He checked his watch. "Or today - whatever day it is?"

Marigold's laughed wetly. "On Christmas morning? I should think so. But, look, we can't." She reached up, stroked his face fondly. "You're mad, darling. Or - or thinking with your trousers. Or both at once. For one thing, I'm still underage."

Jim drew back. "You said 'yes' to me the first time I asked."

"Yes," Marigold agreed. Her hand dropped away from his face. "And then we had one little stumbling block and you told me you wanted nothing more to do with me."

"I know." He exhaled. "Because… I was a coward."

"Jim, you're not - " Marigold gritted her teeth. "Is Charlie Gervas gone?"

Jim looked out again and, finding the garden clear, nodded.

Marigold pulled his jacket closer around her shoulders, unable to suppress another shiver. "Then for Heavens' sake," she sighed, "let's go and talk about this somewhere a bit warmer."

"All right." Jim glanced ruefully towards the dark hulk of the house. "Whole house is crawling with guests, though, and - "

"Come up to my room, then."

"Your - Marigold, your mother would shoot me if she caught us!"

Privately, Marigold thought such prudishness was a bit rich, coming from a man who not five minutes earlier had been getting rather well acquainted with her undergarments, but she bit back any comment. Instead, she said, "Anthony gave me a suite, silly. There's a sitting room. If anyone asks, we'll just say we wanted a few quiet minutes to ourselves. No lie there."

"All right."

"This really is an extraordinarily large bunch of mistletoe," Edith observed, as she reached up to twist a berry off. "Are you hoping it's going to last all Christmas?"

"Mmm, yes." Anthony kissed her again behind her ear. "Until at least Burns Night."

"Well," Edith laughed, "it won't if you carry on like that."

Anthony pouted. "I think the kisses only count if they're in particular places, Lady Strallan."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really." Anthony wheeled her around to face him again and pulled her close. "For example, if I were to, say, kiss you like this - " (he pressed his lips to hers) "then, I agree, it would count. But if I did this - " (as he spoke, he ducked his head and kissed his way along her collarbone, making Edith sigh warmly) "I don't think it counts at all."

"Mmmm," Edith replied drowsily, smiling up at him as her fingers feathered through the hairs at the back of his neck. "Perhaps you're right. How long until all the guests leave?"

"Why?" he grinned. "Got other plans this evening?"

"I have now, yes…"

"I say," a voice interrupted from behind them. "You haven't seen Miss Marigold, have you?"

Edith and Anthony sprang apart and turned to find Charlie Gervas, his round innocent face wearing an expression of polite enquiry. Anthony surreptitiously wiped a trace of Edith's lipstick from his mouth; Edith smoothed down the neckline of her gown.

"No, Charlie. Sorry, we haven't."

Charlie frowned. "Hmm, that's odd. Last I saw, she was dashing off into the garden with Jim Chetwood of all people… Oh, well, perhaps she's back in the ballroom." And he blundered off.

Edith and Anthony exchanged looks. "Well!" Edith exhaled.

"My thoughts precisely," returned Anthony.

"Not going up to Locksley for Christmas?" Geoffrey wondered as he and Cynthia began to gather their things together for the evening. They'd sent the rest of the office staff home early - well, nominally 'home.' Cynthia suspected most of them had instead headed out to the nearest pub. And why not? It was Christmas Eve, after all - and they were all young things struggling through a bloody horrid war.

Cynthia shrugged, hooking her gas mask case off the hatstand. "No. The trains are bloody expensive and more than likely to get diverted or cancelled or whatever else." She turned and swept on her coat. "And besides… newlyweds are so boring. At the moment, I'd rather take them in small doses, over the telephone or by letter."

Geoffrey smiled at the half-joke. "Well, what are you doing tomorrow then?"

"Drinking rhubarb gin and listening to the King's speech on the wireless. Why, what are you doing?" She pursed her lips as she clipped her handbag shut and said, dryly, "Got some pretty young slip of a thing lined up, I suppose?" It wouldn't surprise her. Geoffrey was… rather good-looking, as chaps went. And no woman in the country was going to turn her nose up at him these days, with half the eligible male population away in the Forces. No woman, it seemed, except her.

"Three, actually," Geoffrey answered cheerfully. At Cynthia's blank expression of shock, he confessed, "My sister and her two little girls." He cleared his throat. "You could come too, if you like. More than enough mock turkey to go around. And I don't think Alice has got any rhubarb gin."

"Erm… well… won't she mind? Your sister, I mean?"

"No, the more, the merrier." Confidingly, Geoffrey added, "To be honest, she'd like the company. Her husband's away at the moment - Eighth Army."

"North Africa." Cynthia dumped her handbag back on the desk. "God. Geoffrey, I'd no idea."

He shrugged. "Just got to get on with it, haven't you? But… I'm looking out for them while he's away, and… even a clot like me can see that Alice… gets lonely. So… do me a favour?"

"Yes, all right." She smiled. "I'll even bring the rhubarb gin."

"Goes without saying, Gilchrist." He held the office door open for her to pass through ahead of him. "Goes without saying."

In Marigold's sitting room, she checked the blackout and then switched on the standing lamp before gesturing Jim into a seat on the sofa on one side of the fire. "Go on, then," she said, when he'd settled himself. She was still standing, he noted, arms crossed over her chest. "If you think you need to explain yourself, here's your chance." And you'd better make it good.

"Well… I thought… you're already miles younger than me - "

"Not miles," she interrupted. So much for letting him explain himself, he thought.

"Well, enough," Jim insisted. "Enough younger than me that… that I didn't think the idea of an injured husband would appeal. Especially not when I was one eye and two hands down."

"Jim…"

"And I couldn't blame you." He swallowed, roughly. "I certainly couldn't make you go through with it, no matter how much I wanted to." His face tightened. "Christ, M., you've no idea how much I wanted to grab your hand when I was in that hospital bed and say, 'Well, you said "yes" and you're bloody well going to stick to it.'"

"I would have done," Marigold whispered, and now she sank down into the sofa next to him, as if all the fight had drained out of her. "If you'd asked it of me, I would have done, Jim."

But he pressed on as if he hadn't heard her. "And… and I was a coward, M., because - because I didn't think I could face it if you - if you told me you wanted to break things off."

Marigold slid along the sofa until their thighs touched. "Jim…" she breathed, "you weren't a coward." Without looking at him, she stretched out her hand and found his fingers with hers. "I - when I was ill, the last thing I wanted to do was to have to tell anyone about it and watch them… fumbling around trying to make me feel better." She snuffled out a chuckle. "In fact, if I hadn't gone to Anthony to give him a piece of my mind, I'd still be floundering around in my own head."

Jim's fingers tightened on hers. "Marigold, if I'd known, I'd have been there, I'd have been there like a shot - "

"I know, darling." She smiled at him through her tears. "But the thing is - the whole bloody point of it is… I've realised that we can't go through life like this, not trusting the people who say they love us." She exhaled. "Because I do, you know. And I could say all sorts of flowery words, make all sorts of promises, but… it would be pointless because all that really matters is… that I love you, and I don't think I shall ever stop."

Numbly, Jim slid from the sofa and knelt at her feet. "Then…" The words stuck in his throat. "Then let me promise you that I will… that I will not run away from you again. That I will not… hide myself away from you." He settled their linked hands on her knees. "Just let me be with you, Marigold. And… and if one day, you'd like to give me the chance to marry you and make you happy, then I will take it, and gladly."

Marigold was very silent and still for a moment and then she nodded her head. A deep breath exhaled from her lungs. "Good," she said, eventually. "Well, I'm glad we've got that settled." In perfectly normal, cheerful tones, she added, "Obviously, we'll have to wait a bit to do it all properly, in front of others - just until after my twenty-first. I'm finished with asking other people for permission."

Very slowly, Jim rose to his feet. "Are you - are you saying that you'll - that you will… Really?"

Marigold nodded. "Yes."

"Even with the hands and the eye and - "

"And the irritating habit of needing to be bashed over the head with an idea a few thousand times before it sinks in? Yes." She took his hands. "Oh, darling, why don't we just do it now? Say the vows and get it all over with?"

And Jim knew what she was suggesting, knew that if they did that, she'd consider herself bound to him as surely as she would if they'd stood up in a church together - and he knew that that was the point, too. To make him feel safe, to make them both feel they could rely on the other.

Instead of making any answer, he simply lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, saying against her fingertips, "I, James Anthony Chetwood, take thee Marigold Rose Crawley for my beautiful wedded wife." He felt her smile at that, and pressed, on, "Having, holding, comforting, better, worse, richer, poorer, sickness, health, loving, cherishing - consider it said." He checked them off on his fingers. "Honouring and keeping? Sounds reasonable. Forsaking all others? Can't imagine anyone else I'd want. All of it: I do."

"Jolly good." She let out a nervous little huff of laughter, straightened her shoulders and tried to look serious. "I, Marigold Rose Crawley, take thee, James Anthony Chetwood, for my wedded husband. As you say, all that having, holding, comforting, better, worse, richer, poorer, sickness, health stuff - goes without saying. Loving and cherishing, obviously." A dimple peeped in her cheek. "Not sure about the obeying and serving - "

"Be interesting to see you try, though," Jim grinned cheekily and she batted at his arm.

" - But I'll do my best - promise. Honouring - yes. Forsaking all others - absolutely. That's everything, isn't it?"

"Just about."

"There, then. I do."

Jim dug his hand into his pocket and fished out his mother's gold wedding band. "How long have you been carrying this around with you?" Marigold wanted to know.

"Since your mother and Uncle Anthony's engagement dinner." He shrugged. "Sorry it's taken so long to get to you."

Marigold laughed wetly. "I don't care - as long as it's there now, and as long as it bloody well stays there!"

Gently, he slid it onto the third finger of her left hand and kissed it. "Not many goods to endow you with right this minute, I'm afraid," he murmured. "But… definitely wedding you."

Marigold looked up at him shyly. "Isn't there a part," she whispered, "about bodies and worshipping, too?"

Jim was still looking down at their hands. "Yes. But… I didn't want to presume. You might want to wait until after we have chance to do it… well, legally. In the eyes of God, and all that."

Marigold pretended to think. "I've never really believed much in God, you know. But… if He does exist, and if he really cares about all this marriage stuff - and there's no reason why he should, because I'm sure He's got much bigger fish to fry, just now - then, I don't see why it should matter whether we've married in a church, in front of other people, or here, just we two." She swallowed. "You know, if Uncle Anthony were here right now, he'd probably be able to give us some jolly good theological reason that makes it all right - and explain it much more clearly than I can, too."

"No, I understood you," Jim smiled encouragingly, and Marigold thought, Heavens, so that's what marriage is.

"And," she pressed on, through that joyous realisation that had made her want to start crying again, "even after we've done it all over again with a vicar and everything, I'll still think of this as our real wedding. So… I think that entitles me to a real wedding night. What do you think?"

"I think… that was faultlessly logical, as always." He kissed her forehead. "But… there's something you should know, first."

"What?" An awful thought struck and she clung onto his hands, tight. "Were you… injured somewhere else, love, apart from your face and hands?" It wouldn't stop her loving him, she decided firmly, even as the words were leaving her mouth. Whatever he had, whatever he didn't have, this was Jim.

"What?" Then understanding dawned and his brow cleared. "Oh! Christ, no, that's not what I'm trying to - Everything in that department is all present and correct, thank you."

"Oh!" Marigold sucked in a breath. "Oh, Heavens, that's a relief. Then what?"

Jim looked rather sheepish. "Look, I know I was a pilot, and we have rather a reputation for caddishness - "

"Darling," Marigold interrupted, gently but clearly, "if you're about to tell me that you've illegitimate children scattered all over the country from Aberdeen to Andover, can it possibly wait until morning? I promise, I'll love them all to distraction."

"No. No illegitimate children. Not even one. It's actually, um, worse than that." He chewed his lip and then straightened his shoulders with the look of a man about to confess to high treason. "In the interests of full disclosure, you should know… I've not ever, er, actually… done what needs to be done to get even one woman pregnant."

There was absolute silence for a moment. From downstairs, they could hear music and the laughter and chatter of guests. Jim wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. Marigold sat down with a soft flump! on the sofa. Any minute now, he knew, she was going to start laughing or, more likely, think better of the whole bloody enterprise.

But in the end, all she did was look up at him with the strangest expression on her face. "Oh, Jim… that's… lovely. You're lovely."

"I mean, I've not been a - a monk or anything," he protested, "just… never… got that far with a girl before and I know it's not exactly ideal, to have both of us… fumbling about in the dark, but… I just wanted to be honest and - what did you say?" Marigold's words had suddenly caught up with him.

"I said," she repeated, "that I think it's lovely. You're lovely."

"It is?" He sounded surprised. "I am?"

"Yes. In all of our lives, we're going to be the only two people we ever share this with." She stood, hands on her hips. "And, as possessive as it sounds, I rather like the fact that you're going to be, well, all mine." The 'so there' was heavily implied.

He pulled her to him, and as their mouths met, he groaned, "I love you, Marigold…" It sounded raw, desperate, almost as if he were on the verge of tears, and Marigold clung to him, kissing every bit of his handsome, scarred face that she could reach.

A while later, Marigold brushed a hand through his hair, smiling in dazed pleasure at him. "See?" she said smugly. "Didn't I tell you it was going to be lovely?"

"Clever clogs," Jim pretended to grumble and kissed her palm.

"Mmm, I know," she grinned, and stretched out on her back, hands behind her head. "Heavens. If we'd only done this sooner, it'd have saved an awful lot of trouble."

"Hello!" the little girl on Geoffrey's hip grinned at Cynthia as the door opened to her, revealing two missing front teeth. Her mass of curly dark hair was held back with two yellow barrette clips and she looked to be about eight years old.

"Er… hello," Cynthia smiled.

Geoffrey stepped back and admitted her into the house's hallway. "Miss Gilchrist, can I introduce you to my niece, Margaret?"

"Hello, Margaret." Cynthia smiled at the little girl as she took her hat off. "My name's Cynthia - isn't your uncle a fussy old thing, to insist on surnames?"

Margaret gurgled out a laugh. "Hello, Cynthia."

"Uncle Geoffrey, Uncle Geoffrey!" A smaller girl, with the same dark hair as her sister, dashed down the stairs, and skidded to a halt at Geoffrey's side.

"And this is Lily," Geoffrey told Cynthia. "Lils, this is Miss - this is Cynthia. We work together."

"Geoff!" a woman's voice called from the back of the house. "Were you born in a barn?! Shut the bloo- shut the door, will you?"

Geoffrey twinkled at Cynthia. "My sister, Alice. Shall I introduce you?"

"Why not?" As they walked down the hall, Lily reached up and slipped a slightly sticky hand into Cynthia's.