"Ah, my dear Sylvia", Sir George said, his voice carrying the warmth of camaraderie. "Before we enter, may I just remark that you truly are a vision."

Sylvia blushed, grateful for the compliment. "Thank you, Sir George. It's a special occasion, after all."

"And well-deserved", Sir George continued. "But tell me, my dear, what was that libation you enjoyed on the terrace?"

"A glass of white Bordeaux, Sir George. It was exquisite."

He chuckled. "Ah, white Bordeaux—a delightful choice! And fear not, my dear, it would not have done any harm either. In fact, it might have added a touch of magic to your already enchanting presence."

Sylvia's dark brown eyes sparkled. "Magic, you say?"

"Indeed", Sir George said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Wine has a way of weaving its spell, enhancing beauty, and creating memories. Your mother's guidance on lingerie and a sip of Bordeaux—what a splendid combination!"

Lady Isadora responded, her laughter lilting. "Sir George, you always find the most interesting perspectives."

"Well", Sir George replied, "it's my duty as an old friend to keep things interesting. Now, let's go in. Someone rather special awaits."

19 guests! Another new record! Thank you all.

"Sylvia, escorted by her godparents to the grand Library, had felt both excitement and nervousness. Lady Isadora, a woman of elegance and wisdom, had congratulated her on looking not only beautiful but at ease.

"Thank you, Lady Isadora", Sylvia said, her voice steady. "I feel very comfortable."

"You do look it, my dear", Lady Isadora replied, her eyes assessing Sylvia's appearance. "There's an air of ease about you that can only come from true confidence. It's a delight to see."

Sylvia hesitated, then leaned in closer. "Well, Lady Isadora, there's a secret to it. You see, my mother not only chose my outer clothes for this special evening but my tailormade silk and satin underwear as well."

Lady Isadora raised an eyebrow. "Oh, my dear Sylvia! But have you found it to be comfortable as well as pretty?"

"Yes, very much so", Sylvia confessed. "She told me that on such occasions, a lady's lingerie should not only make her feel pretty and desirable but also be as comfortable as a second skin. It's a philosophy that I've very much come to appreciate."

"What a wise woman your mother is", Lady Isadora mused. "It's true that comfort is just as important as beauty when it comes to lingerie. After all, a woman should feel confident and at ease in her own skin, no matter the occasion."

"Absolutely, Lady Isadora", Sylvia agreed. "Especially on this occasion! I'm very grateful for her choices, and I think the perfect smooth fit shows in the way I carry myself this evening."

"It certainly does, Sylvie", Lady Isadora said. "You're a vision of elegance and grace."

"Thank you, Lady Isadora", Sylvia replied, touched by the compliment. "Your kindness means the world to me."

"It's my pleasure, Sylvie", Lady Isadora said, her emerald eyes twinkling. "Now, let's meet this young man and enjoy the rest of this delightful evening."

On the garden terrace, bathed in twilight and surrounded by the fragrance of blooming roses, Sylvia stood, wine glass in hand, on the threshold of adulthood. Love, ambition, and the intricate dance of human connections awaited her. The rose-shaded silhouette she cast epitomised youthful promise and possibility as she awaited the story about to be written. Beside her stood Lady Isadora and Sir George—her astute guardians, their eyes as sharp as the moon's crescent.

Lady Isadora's body is a stunning masterpiece of curves and contours. Her chest is full and well-rounded, with a hint of cleavage peeking out from the top of her lace dress. Her neck is long and slender, accentuating the beauty of the pearls nestled against her throat. Her shoulders are broad, yet delicate, providing a perfect frame for her beautiful face. Moving down, her waist is narrow and well-defined, drawing attention to her generous hips and round, firm buttocks. Her legs are long and toned, with the slightest hint of a tan line visible just above the edge of her lace dress. Her feet are small and delicate, adorned with a pair of elegant high-heeled shoes. As she moves, her body exhibits a graceful fluidity, a testament to her poise and elegance. She exudes an air of confidence and sensuality, captivating the attention of all who are fortunate enough to behold her.

Sylvia's parents, steeped in the finest French tradition of wine appreciation, had gently guided their daughter, emphasising savouring over excess. And so she sips, savouring a refreshing dry white Bordeaux exceptionally from the Sauternes subregion—a budding connoisseur who has already learned that moderation is the key—a lesson passed through generations of clinking glasses.

Fast-forward in her mind's eye—as she sits in her Trevelver Castle bedroom waiting for Eli's return, Jeremy Corentyn Cador appears for that very first time—the dashing Royal Navy Captain to be, now affectionately referred to as her "squeeze" by the gossipy ladies of London. There, he stands tall, well-built, and clean-shaven, exuding purpose as he strides towards her. Sylvia's heart flutters as his sea-green gaze pierces through to her very soul while her godparents look on in silent approval.

As Sylvia would later discover, several months prior, a clandestine gathering had been held in the secure oak-panelled Library of the Chelsea townhouse—some discussions were too secret even for Whitehall.

Present were her parents, her godfather, and the enigmatic Admiral Tregowan—the head of a top-secret organisation within the British government and confidant of Sir Winston Churchill. Their purpose, veiled in the utmost secrecy—decisions that would shape the future of the Trevelvers.

The Admiral, the embodiment of purposeful discretion, presided over their clandestine deliberations. His posture remained disciplined, unwavering, as his gaze swept the room—an adept grandmaster, perpetually calculating several moves ahead. Clad in his customary tailored suit of dark hues, he exuded professionalism and a reserved sense of style. Every detail, meticulously attended to, mirrored the precision he applied to life's intricate game.

His silver hair crowned a tall frame, a testament to wisdom earned through navigating treacherous waters. His steel grey eyes, unique and penetrating, added to the air of discernment that surrounded him. Lines etched on his face spoke of a lifetime spent balancing duty's delicate scales and hinted at years of strategic manoeuvring. The chessboard awaited his next move.

His presence carried the weight of history and whispered covert instructions. When he spoke it was the measured cadence of a man who knew when to reveal and when to withhold. Approval for Jeremy Corentyn Cador—the putative heir to Trevelver Castle—was the subject. Since the First World War and Winston Churchill's time as First Lord of the Admiralty, the Castle had housed an ultra-secret site of the greatest national military importance. Thus, the Admiral—steward of secret history—wielded influence. Lord and Lady Trevelver patiently awaited his decision while Sir George watched, eyes sharp as a rook's beak, the well-being of his goddaughter front and centre. The future of the twenty-one-year-old naval officer rested on the Admiral's approval—a pawn's journey toward figurative kingship.

The Library doors firmly closed. As soon as all were seated, Admiral Tregowan opened the meeting without preamble.

"Before we delve into the heart of our discussion," he began, his voice a low rumble, "we have another related matter to consider." His gaze swept over the three faces focussed on him. "Sylvia", he continued, "the young heiress to Trevelver Castle remains absent from our midst. She is but fourteen. Yet in two years' time, she will be considered old enough to sign the requisite Official Secrets Act."

Lady Trevelver, her dark brown eyes alight with determination, rose from her chair. "Admiral", she began, her gaze unwavering, "as you are aware, the Trevelvers uphold the sacred traditions of Atlantis—the Queen Priestesses of that lost civilisation. Their wisdom, their connection to the unseen realms, transcends mere mortal years. Even centuries later, in medieval England", she stated, her voice unwavering, "the age of majority remained at fourteen for girls if married and sixteen if single; while, for boys, it was twenty-one, as it is today, alas, for both genders! However, our family steadfastly upholds fourteen as the age of majority for our daughters—a matrilineal legacy stretching back to our ancestor Queen Priestesses, the bearers of ancient wisdom now known to very few."

Lord Trevelver nodded, his features showing quiet pride. "Admiral, our daughter", he stated, "is no ordinary girl. She carries the inheritance of those priestesses within her—a lineage that defies mere mortal years."

Sir George, ever the vigilant protector, leaned forward. "Unusual as the situation may indeed seem, Admiral, I can affirm that Syvia's maturity surpasses her years", he stated. "Her inheritance, at this time, demands her inclusion in our counsels."

And so, in that hallowed room, the Admiral weighed ancient tradition against modern-day regulations. Sylvia, at fourteen, stood on the threshold of destiny. The Official Secrets Act awaited her signature. A pawn's journey toward queenship, affirmed by ancient bloodlines and the wisdom of ages.

In the dimly lit room, the green-shaded electric bulbs cast their shadows upon the mahogany bookshelves. Lady Penelope's resolve remained unyielding: her daughter need not wait. From their ethereal realm, the Queen Priestesses nodded—an ancient approval echoing through the fabric of time and space. The decision was made. And now, Admiral Tregowan could turn their attention to the main business at hand.

As if that moment summoned by Sylvie's thoughts, her beloved godfather, Sir George Widgeon III, came into view, moving with accustomed grace across the crowded terrace. His meticulously groomed silver-streaked hair catches the fading sunlight as he acknowledges individual guests with a smile and a cheery greeting. The impeccably tailored navy-blue suit he wears—a testament to timeless elegance—accentuates his stature and bearing.

Greeting Sylvie and her godmother, Sir George's eyes crinkle at the corners—a genuine warmth that transcends formality. His commanding presence exudes both authority and congeniality, striking a balance between confidence and approachability. When he kisses Isadora's cheeks, their shared history resonates in the timbre of his rich, resonant voice.

Turning to his goddaughter, his cobalt eyes twinkle in his good-humoured face. In this delicate moment, Sir George embodies the essence of a true gentleman. He leans down to Sylvie's level, observing her pose—the delicate tilt of her chin, the way her long, slim-gloved hands clasp the folds of her pink dress.

"Ah, my dear Sylvie", he says, his words a symphony of perfect assurance. "You are a vision—a rosebud in full bloom. Your dress is the epitome of elegance. And your bearing! Straight-backed, shoulders squared—you carry yourself with the grace of a swan gliding across a mirrored lake."

His strong, comforting hand briefly rests gently upon her shoulder. It is a touch that bridges generations—a connection between the seasoned English gentleman and the glowing promise of youthful beauty and latent power. Sylvie's heart swells.

"And your smile," Sir George continues, his broad smile mirroring hers. This evening, you've made us all feel a little brighter, a little younger."

In this tender moment, Sylvie is enveloped by her godfather's congratulatory embrace—a steadfast display of considerate courtesy before he gently reassures her.

"Dear Sylvie, as you prepare to meet Jeremy Corentyn Cador for the first time, you're not flying solo. Isadora and I will be by your side on this important occasion."

"Indeed, we will", Isadora assures Sylvie.

"Although Trevelver tradition forbids us from discussing the young man in question," her godfather pauses and, leaning closer, whispers, " You have nothing to fear, my dear! Absolutely nothing at all!"

The new series of 'The Responder' started on BBC1 last night and he plays Martin Freeman's father so that was probably his last acting part

RIP Bernard.
He was the king of Rohan in the LOR trilogy,
loved him in Boys from the black stuff, should try and find that on a streaming service to watch again.

The name rings a bell, though I've never seen the show you mention. What part did he play in Lord of the Rings?

Famous for playing Yosser Hughes (Gissa job) in 'Boys from the black stuff' through to Lord of the Rings and Titanic, he was a very versatile actor and will be sorely missed