Disclaimer: Catherine Stewart still belongs to me. None of the other characters do, though.
Author's Notes: Only two comments to make before diving into this chapter. First, my usual deep thanks to my wonderful Beta, GiulliettaC.
Second: In 1942, Easter fell on April 5. In 1943, Easter fell on April 25.
Christmas Day, 1942
The rest of the afternoon and evening passed rather uncomfortably. When the four of them left for the carol service, Sam – sensing correctly that Paul felt too self-conscious to initiate any physical contact with her in front of her parents – tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow with a studied air of proprietary nonchalance and gave his arm a little squeeze.
"I suppose your conversation with my father was rather harrowing?" she whispered.
"He was much kinder than I had any right to expect," Paul replied, sotto voce. "We had a very good talk, actually."
"And how did you leave things? Did he say that we could have his blessing?"
"He said that he needed to turn the matter over in his mind, and talk to your mother, before letting me know his final thoughts."
Sam made a face. "Then we're not home and dry yet. I think Mother will take a lot of convincing. You should have heard some of the questions she asked me!" Paul didn't ask Sam to elaborate; if the questions he had had to field that afternoon in Iain Stewart's study were anything to judge by, he could easily imagine some of the concerns that Sam's mother might have had.
"Let's be thankful then, that I wasn't sent back to Hastings on the next train," he said.
"If they had done that, it probably would have started gossip. I'd be willing to wager whatever you spent on my ring," Sam flourished her gloved left hand as she spoke, "that all of Lyminster has been on tenterhooks to catch a glimpse of you." Sam grinned devilishly, pleased, after nearly a quarter of a century, to have found a practical use for the inquisitive and censorious nature of her father's congregation.
For once, Sam's tendency to exaggeration was completely justified by events. From the moment that he entered St. Stephen's, Sam still clinging to his arm, Paul felt every pair of eyes focus in on him. A generalized buzz of conversation became audible as they made their way towards the vicarage pew and took their seats, Sam nodding greetings to everyone they passed.
"Imagine being the focus of this much attention for over twenty years," she commented wryly to Paul, keeping a gracious smile fixed firmly in place, "And you'll have some idea of what my life was like here. Everyone will want an introduction after services; don't worry if you can't remember anyone's name afterwards."
The rush of congregational well-wishers after the service was, in fact, somewhat reminiscent of the receiving line after a wedding. Seemingly everyone who had attended the service wanted to welcome Paul to Lyminster and wish him a Merry Christmas, eyeing him all the while like livestock judges at a county show. Sam, Paul, and her parents were among the last people to leave the church, though Sam assured him that this was what usually happened in any case.
Supper back at the rectory was a quiet meal. Sam and her father kept up the bulk of the conversation, though Paul made occasional contributions. They stuck to general topics; the coming schedule of services, the war news, and the history of St. Stephen's. Every now and again they lapsed into an awkward silence, which Sam would quickly fill with enquiries after various members of her father's congregation. Catherine said nothing beyond what was required for serving the meal, and spent most of her time studying Paul thoughtfully.
...
"Well this is quite a turn of events," Catherine remarked to her husband when they were finally in the privacy of their own room after celebrating Midnight Mass. She checked the blackout curtains as she spoke. Her greatest trial in life (apart from St. Stephen's organist, Unity Carmichael, who considered that her musical talents justified an "artistic" temperament) was the insomnia that had plagued her for the past fifteen years or more. Catherine was one of the few people in the country who had actually welcomed the advent of blackout curtains and their attendant regulations. She needed total darkness in order to sleep, and even then, she was usually up and down several times in a night. At least one day a week found her struggling through the day's duties in a pall of debilitating exhaustion.
"I agree," Iain noted as he began to undress for bed, "It's all been rather startling." Despite the seriousness of their topic, he hummed a little as he unbuttoned his shirt – celebrating an important Mass usually left him buoyed on waves of spiritual euphoria, and tonight's had been no exception.
"Startling is one word for it, I suppose," Catherine replied, casting her husband a fond glance as he buttoned his pajama jacket. "What did Paul have to say for himself?" With all the dither of services and preparations for the next day, this was the first opportunity she and Iain had had to compare notes on their respective conversations with Samantha and her fiancé.
Iain sketched out his exchange with Paul from that afternoon. "It's very clear to me from our talk that Paul cares very deeply for Samantha and wants to do right by her," he concluded. "He really does seem to be a very nice young man, and from what he told me about his marriage, it appears to me that he was put in a very difficult situation through no real fault of his own."
"Did he tell you that she was the one who pursued him?" Catherine asked as she pulled her nightgown over her head, "Even though Samantha knew that he was still married?"
"No, he didn't." Iain felt his regard for the young man increase. Paul had been most chivalrous in that regard, shouldering the burden of responsibility for the choices that both he and Samantha had made. "He did assure me, however, that he hasn't taken advantage of Samantha's feelings for him in any way. Their relationship has been entirely chaste."
"Samantha told me the same thing. She was quite vehement about the whole issue." Catherine hung up her dress and tidied away Iain's discarded socks as she spoke. "I suppose we'll be giving our consent then? Samantha as good as told me that she was of age and meant to do as she pleased even if we refused."
"At least they do care about asking for our consent," Iain replied, climbing into bed, "Not very many young people nowadays seem to bother. You remember what happened to the Elliots." Their daughter, Winifred, had left Lyminster to join the ATS. When she finally got around to writing home about her young man, their marriage was already a fait accompli.
"Do you still have reservations about Paul, Cathy?" Iain asked his wife. He sensed that there was still something that she wanted to get off her chest.
"No, nothing of the kind, Iain," Catherine replied. "All that business about his late wife came as a shock – well, I hardly need to tell you that! But you can tell, just listening to him and Samantha talking to each other, that he really is as nice as she said he is. The way he was looking at her during dinner…it rather reminded me of how you used to look at me when we were engaged."
"Don't I gaze at you adoringly anymore?" Iain asked, eyes twinkling.
"Of course you do, Darling," Catherine replied from the chair in front of her vanity where she was brushing her hair, "I can feel you doing it right now." She tried and failed to suppress a smile.
"What's troubling you then?"
Catherine sighed, then gave vent to what had been weighing on her mind that evening. "I'm quite put out with Samantha, being so underhanded about the whole situation. Thinking that she could pull the wool over our eyes until Paul talked her into making a clean breast of things. And making us out to be ogres, as though we couldn't be made to understand human frailty. Heaven knows what sort of impression of us she's given Paul. He looked like a martyr being led to the lions when he followed you into your study this afternoon, though I didn't understand why at the time. Simply giving our consent now almost makes me feel as though we're rewarding bad behaviour."
"I know, Cathy, I know," Iain replied, watching his wife as she finally finished pottering around the room. "In that case, think what courage it must have taken for them to tell us," Iain added, "They could have just kept quiet about his late wife. And I think that Paul feels genuinely contrite; he wanted to make a clean breast of everything and not to have any secrets from here on in."
Catherine climbed into bed next to her husband and switched off her bedside lamp, plunging the room into Stygian darkness. Immediately, she felt Iain's arm slip around her waist and his lips on hers.
"You never answered my question, Iain," Catherine said, her voice half-teasing as he moved to pepper her neck and shoulder with kisses and they nestled closer to each other, "About giving them our consent?"
"It all seems fairly obvious, Cathy," Iain paused in his ministrations as he spoke, running one hand slowly up and down her spine and making her shiver for reasons that had nothing to do with the December weather, "You just said that Samantha intends to marry Paul with or without our consent; we couldn't stop them even if we had a reason to do so. Paul's no longer married, and Samantha is of age. And as you said yourself, despite today's revelations, he really is a thoroughly nice young man. If they've been under the impression that we are ogres, we have an opportunity to confound their expectations. And if you need any more reassurance, we need look no further than the wisdom propounded by Paul's namesake in Corinthians."
"And what would that be?" Catherine managed to ask with an arch giggle.
"Let them marry, for it is better to marry than to burn." And, having delivered his borrowed aphorism, Iain planted a searing kiss on Catherine's lips, effectively closing their discussion for the evening.
...
Christmas morning, though not as joyous as Sam had hoped it would be when she had secured Paul's invitation, was too much of a whirlwind to be uncomfortable. There was just enough time for a hurried breakfast of tea and toast before the first service at eight. By the time they all returned to the rectory (apart from Iain, who had to perform a second service), Sam was so hungry that she could have cried with joy when her mother made the three of them a second breakfast of scrambled powdered eggs as a special Christmas treat.
When they finished eating, a marvelous inspiration seized Sam as she contemplated all of the washing up that needed to be tackled before she and her mother could make a start on cooking their Christmas dinner.
"What luck!" she exclaimed with a smile across the table at Paul, "An extra set of hands. Could you help out with the washing up, Darling?"
"I'd be happy to," Paul said, pushing back his chair and standing up.
"Samantha, you can't put a guest to work in the kitchen," her mother admonished. Her expression, which she was trying valiantly to conceal, seemed to be composed of equal parts horror at this breach of etiquette, and terror at the idea of letting a man loose amongst the crockery.
"Oh, nonsense, Mother, Paul's going to be a member of the family," Sam replied breezily, carrying her dishes to the sink with Paul following in her wake, "And anyway, he's had so much practice these past few years, being on his own, he's quite domesticated." She reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek as he began rolling up his sleeves. "As long as you don't ask him to dust," Sam whispered slyly, just for Paul's benefit, whereupon he grinned down at the sink full of dishes and got down to the business of washing them.
"Why don't you tell Mother about Sergeant Rivers' onion?" Sam prompted, as she dried the dishes and her mother began assembling the ingredients for their dinner. With a little prompting and plenty of interpositions from Sam, Paul began telling the story. Catherine listened as she began dressing the duck that she'd managed to acquire. When the dishes were finished, Sam roped Paul into preparing potatoes, and as the three of them worked together, Catherine began asking Paul about his early days with the police, and his childhood. Sam stopped chiming in to keep the conversation moving, and almost held her breath as she listened to them talk; the longer it went on, the more natural it sounded and the easier Sam breathed.
...
When Iain finally returned from St. Stephen's the whole house smelled tantalizingly of delicious things to eat. Dinner was markedly less awkward than supper had been the night before; everyone participated in the conversation, which flowed smoothly as they demolished the stuffed duck and other goodies. As the meal was winding down, Catherine broached the subject that was uppermost in everyone's mind.
"Your father and I talked over the whole situation last night and we're very happy to give you our blessing. Paul, we're very glad to welcome you to the family."
Sam shot out of her chair with such energy that it toppled over backwards, narrowly missing the wall behind it. Without bothering to set it upright, she rushed to give both her parents exuberant hugs and kisses of thanks. Paul set Sam's chair to rights, then accepted a warm handshake across the table from Sam's father.
After the table was cleared, all four of them repaired to the sitting room to begin making plans over tea and cake. Sam helped her mother hand around the plates and cups, then sat next to Paul on the sofa, leaning cozily against his shoulder.
"Do you think I used too much ginger?" Catherine fretted after her first, analytical bite of the carrot cake.
"My Dear," said Iain as Sam rolled her eyes for Paul's benefit, "You are, as ever, your own harshest critic. The cake is wonderful." Sam and Paul agreed, and everyone had seconds.
"When were you hoping to be married?" Catherine queried, opening her diary for the upcoming year.
"As soon as possible," Sam said immediately. A small ripple of laughter issued from both her parents and she felt Paul kiss her hair. "Well what is there to wait for, really?" Sam persisted, "Paul already has a house full of furniture, and linens, and dishes, and everything of that sort. It's not as though we need to lay in supplies or save up for anything."
"That may be, Samantha," Catherine countered, "But you don't want people thinking that you have to get married so quickly, do you? It's not as though Paul is about be sent overseas after all."
"Did you have something in mind?" Paul asked.
"Well," Catherine began, "It would be so nice if you could be married from here. And then Iain could officiate. I think that the best time to hold the ceremony would be a couple of days after Easter. The weather will be warmer, the church will already be decorated, and it will give the rest of the family enough time to make the trip, if they can get away." These things had to be taken into account in a family full of vicars. "By that time, I should be able to scrape together the ingredients for another cake as well."
"So, we'd be married in early April, then?" Sam ventured cautiously after a moment's consideration.
"No, Dear," her mother replied, "Easter isn't until April 25th this year."
"But Easter was the very beginning of April last year," Sam countered, "I remember distinctly."
"It's a moveable feast, Samantha," Iain put in, "You of all people should know that."
"But that's four whole months from now!" Sam wailed in dismay. She knew that her outburst sounded childish, particularly when a month ago, she and Paul had been resigned to a wait three times as long. She felt momentarily, however, as though someone had deliberately arranged the calendar solely in order to torment her and Paul.
"Why can't we be married at the beginning of April in any case?" Sam added with as much patience as she could muster. After everything that she and Paul had already been through, a three month engagement represented the absolute limits of Sam's patience. "There's a war on after all, Mother. You couldn't possibly arrange a big wedding party even if you did wait until after Easter. We just need something very small and simple, and I don't see why we need to wait four months for that."
"But you're forgetting about Lent, my Dear," Iain replied placidly. "When does Ash Wednesday fall this year, Cathy?"
Catherine flipped a few pages and squinted down at the small type. "March 10th," she announced.
"Oh, who really bothers about Lent these days?" Sam groaned dismally, "Everything's been rationed forever. At this rate, there's simply nothing left for anyone to indulge in during the year, let alone abstain from during Lent. I'm sure that God doesn't really care."
"Bishops still care about Lent, Samantha," her father replied firmly, "I would have to get permission from mine in order to perform a marriage ceremony. Any vicar would."
"Well, can't you ask for a dispensation then? Our family is nothing but vicars; surely somebody must have some pull."
"Of course, my Dear," Iain reassure his daughter, "I'll make enquiries first thing next week. What date shall I request when I do?" Sam heaved herself off of the sofa and peered over her mother's shoulder at the calendar.
"First Saturday in April," she announced, "April 3rd. How does that sound, Paul?"
"Any time will do for me," he said with a fond smile. At the moment, he felt capable of any form of endurance with the reassurance that a life with Sam was waiting for him at the end of it. A few weeks more or a few weeks less weren't life and death. Sam resumed her seat next to Paul on the sofa, somewhat subdued. He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, and this seemed to calm Sam slightly.
"Don't look so glum, Darling." Catherine set her diary aside after making a notation and addressed herself to her daughter with a twinkling smile. "You're quite right that we couldn't give you a nice, pre-war 'do even if we tried, but how would you like to be married in a real wedding dress? And what would you say if I told you that it won't even cost you any coupons?"
"I'd say you'd gone 'round the bend," Sam replied, looking speculatively at her mother and wondering what she was about to pull out of her sleeve.
"Well, it's like this," Catherine began, growing more enthusiastic and vivacious as her narrative progressed, "Helen Donaldson – her husband is the vicar at St. Mary's in Littlehampton – got her hands on a parachute at the start of '41. And she had the rather clever idea of having it made up into a wedding dress – actually, I think she made two – and loaning them out to brides in the neighboring parishes. All we're responsible for are the alterations – she had the dresses cut generously to accommodate larger figures. I've attended at least two weddings where the brides were wearing Helen's dresses and the girls looked just lovely. You wouldn't be a fashion plate, of course, but there's nothing like a bride in white silk, don't you agree?" she concluded brightly.
Paul grinned and glanced down at his lap, biting his bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. Sam and her mother didn't share very much in the way of physical appearance. Under the influence of enthusiasm, however, it was impossible to miss the almost uncanny resemblance between the two women. When his future mother-in-law beamed at the assembled company in the glow of imparting her lovely idea, Paul almost felt as though he were looking at Sam.
"That does sound lovely." Sam smiled dreamily at the idea. "Can you ring her up tomorrow?"
"Of course, Darling. Now let's make a list of who we ought to invite…" Catherine began, reaching for her pencil.
So Paul and Sam's wedding date was fixed tentatively for April 3rd, in three months' time. And the rest of the long Christmas weekend was spent as Sam had originally hoped it would be: with her parents getting to know Paul better and all four of them making wedding plans.