Title: Finding Her Way
Characters: Christopher Foyle and Samantha Wainwright

Summary: Faced with the possible reality of no longer working with Foyle, Sam tries to find her way to what it is she truly wants.

A/N: This story takes place around the episode Trespass from the most recent series. We've taken some liberties with canon. A HUGE thank you to dancesabove for her beta work and suggestions. Any mistakes, therefore, are our own.

Reviews or comments are always greatly appreciated.

Disclaimer: All characters from Foyle's War belong to Anthony Horowitz. No copyright infringement intended.

Part 1

A solid clunk sounded from the machine in front of her, and she clicked her tongue in annoyance. Not again. What was it about typewriters? They all seemed to have it in for her. Across the small outer office a red-headed woman looked up, saying with mingled sympathy and exasperation, "Jammed again?"

"Seems so." Samantha Wainwright sighed, standing over the machine to see where it had gone wrong. Perhaps she should go in for typewriter repair instead… she seemed to have encountered every potential problem for this machine, at least. Sam was soon back to typing, her eyes feeling a bit weary after so many files and reports. It had to be done, however, and as it was for him she didn't really mind.

Half an hour later Sam's office companion put her work away, gathered her things, and called a cheerful, "'Night, Sam," over her shoulder, leaving Sam to battle with the machine on her own. Sam made a face at the woman's retreating back, feeling belittled by the idea a machine might outwit her.

She stood and carefully put the recently typed files together, then went through the door behind her into Christopher Foyle's office. They were no longer driver and detective now, but secretary and senior intelligence agent. It had been a natural shift in some ways, and they worked together easily after spending five years of the war together, day in and day out, doing their best to keep Hastings and the South Coast trouble-free. Now they worked with another sort of trouble; but, paperwork was paperwork. Foyle's spartan office was quiet, and she guessed he was still in his meeting. Putting the files away carefully in the tray on his desk, she turned back to the typewriter to finish the last few reports before calling it a day.

Her stomach rumbled and she hoped the ruddy machine would behave. She left the door between the offices open and sat down to work again, looking up only when Foyle returned, some ten minutes later.

"Still here?" He glanced at her through the door between the adjoining offices.

"Typewriter is being a nuisance."

Foyle gave a small chuckle. "Well, don't be too late. Files can wait."

Going to sit behind his desk, Foyle pulled his diary towards him, rifling through a few pages. Sam turned back to the machine in front of her, glaring at it and willing it not to jam.

She was soon distracted by a heavy sigh from Foyle in the office behind her. She knew that sound; after years of working together, how could she not? But this sigh was different from his others; it was not a huff of annoyance, nor a weary sigh. It was something altogether different… wistful, almost. It made her pause, and when he sighed again, she leaned back in her chair, craning her head back to look around the door frame.

Foyle sat with one finger on his top lip, gazing down at the diary in front of him, his other hand tapping a page absently. Clearly he was lost in thought, one eyebrow arched ruefully.

Feeling taken aback, Sam asked softly, "All right, sir?"

He looked up in surprise, blinking. "Er, yes. Yes, thanks, Sam."

She nodded at him, giving him a swift smile before returning to her work. It wasn't long before she heard him begin to pace, and one corner of her mouth curled up in amusement. So, he was definitely thinking about something, then. She wondered if he realised how easily she was able to read his quirks.

Putting the finishing touch on the last report, Sam stood gratefully, resisting the urge to give the machine a gloating look, and went into Foyle's office to hand over the pages.

"Finished, then?" he asked from where he stood on the far side of the room. He'd been reading a file as he walked back and forth.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Time you were off home."

As Sam approached his desk, her eye caught her own name. With a quick glance behind her to see if Foyle still was pacing with his back to her, she leaned in more closely to read what was there.

In the diary, which had been left open on the previous week's pages, she saw "13:00: Meeting with Valentine — Global Oil." In pencil, scrawled in his looped handwriting beside this entry, was "Sam safe."

Her eyes widened and she quickly placed the pages down on his desk, moving away before he noticed her. While she didn't see it as snooping, he might perhaps think otherwise. Foyle hadn't seemed to notice, however, as he was still moving in a regular rhythm on the other side of the room, staring down at the file in his hands in irritation.

"Um, I'll say goodnight, then, sir."

He looked up, giving her a quick smile, lips turning downwards softly. "Goodnight, Sam."

She paused, half wanting to say something, but then decided against it. She crossed the threshold of their two offices and left him to his musings. Gathering up her things, she left, glancing back once at the top of the stairs, puzzled and unsure.

It was well after seven-thirty by the time Sam arrived home, but the house she shared with her husband Adam Wainwright, was cold and dark. Her mind still busy processing what she had left behind her in the office, she didn't notice the dreariness of the kitchen, nor did she put much thought towards the fact that there was nothing for tea. Instead she sat down with a relieved thump in a chair, leaning her elbows wearily on the kitchen table.

Last week had been awful, to put it mildly. Adam had been a complete BF, in her opinion, getting mixed up with a constituent, and her resultant reckless volunteering for undercover work had very nearly been deadly. Though it wasn't the first time she had been on the wrong end of a gun, she didn't particularly relish the experience. This time had been far too close; if it hadn't been for Mr Valentine…

She had expected a ticking-off from Foyle after he had met with Valentine last week for a report of events about Global Oil and the Del Mars, but her boss hadn't even mentioned it. The diary entry, however, made it quite clear that he was aware of what had happened. So why hadn't he said something?

Then again, perhaps he hadn't found it necessary to be cross with her; she'd had enough of a fright as it was, and it was possible he was letting her stew for a while. He might be waiting for her to say something. Suppose she was meant to apologise, and hadn't done so? A shiver of mortification went through her before she remembered how attentive he had been recently—quick to ask if things were all right, and tending to hover nearby inconspicuously. Sam suddenly felt very tired. Foyle was a mystery, and that was that.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, she looked around miserably at the drab kitchen, feeling both hungry and isolated. The self-pitying thought, "I wish someone would bring me a cup of tea for once," crossed her mind as she rose to search the cupboard for something to eat. It was hard to fit in the housekeeping as well as her job, and she often felt there was hardly any point, as Adam was in and out without much notice. It wasn't really his fault—his job was difficult at times, and he was ever so keen to do it well. Sam sighed. She wanted to do her job well too, but she felt little support for her endeavour. Adam saw it as a waste of time; the other office girls were clearly more competent than she was; and the senior agents like Valentine and Foyle would only ever see her as a scrap of a girl inclined to get herself into trouble.

Standing by the sink, Sam leaned against it heavily and tried not to cry. She knew the impossible feeling came from a trying day and the unwelcoming return home, but it was hard to shake, and the tears came without warning. Feeling suddenly impatient with herself, she filled the tea kettle and bashed it down on the stove with force, then banged a saucepan beside it, relishing the jarring sound and feeling satisfaction in the release of tension. For the next five minutes, as she prepared her lonely supper, she slammed cupboard doors, slapped a bowl and glass down on the table, and generally attacked her kitchen. Perhaps after this she would break out the hoover and give a thorough going over to the hideous carpet Adam had insisted would look lovely in the sitting room...

Long after the news on the wireless had finished, the small terraced house was surprisingly tidy, the frustrations Sam felt having melted away through her vigorous activity. Now she sat curled in bed, feet a bit frozen and book open on her middle, her mind far away. Late though it was, Sam had completely forgotten to keep an ear out for Adam. Instead she was thinking of Foyle, still puzzling about him.

She never could be quite sure what to make of him. Sometimes she felt in awe of him, finding his ability to outwit others both overwhelming and thrilling. She admired him in many ways, finding his uncomplicated morals and steadfast demeanour reassuring. He had such a presence at times—commanding respect and attention by merely walking into a room—while at other times he was reflective and reticent. Some were misled by the inability to recognise the quiet strength radiating from him.

It was an attractive quality, she had to admit; many times she had been pulled in by this strength, drawn by the look in his eyes as he surveyed her. It made her feel safe, and when the glance lingered longer than was perhaps seemly, it allowed her to feel feminine and graceful. It was as if he alone saw beyond the uniform she had worn during the war, or the ill-fitting frocks she now owned, and saw instead a woman who had stood by him loyally and who deserved a say in things.

Most importantly, she felt completely at ease in his company. Years of working together had smoothed the path for their talking openly and honestly about many things. It occurred to her that Foyle probably knew her better than anyone, including Adam. He had a way of reading her that left little room for secrecy, which was precisely why she trusted him completely. While he might not tell her all that he was thinking, he had never shut her out, and had always listened to anything she might have to say. He was good that way; years as a policeman standing him in good stead as he listened to her musings, not afraid to question her opinions and allow her to reason with him.

She missed these talks with him. While they still conversed in the car as they drove around London, it was harder at the office, as one could never be sure if the walls had ears. Why the others seemed to doubt Foyle, she didn't know, as he had already been an asset to the service many times over. Equally, Sam couldn't quite understand why he hadn't packed it in and gone home to Hastings; she certainly wouldn't stay in a place where she wasn't wanted, with people whispering behind her back.

With a sudden jolt, Sam felt an unpleasant realisation slip through her. Perhaps she wasn't wanted. Where was Adam, and why hadn't he rung her up? Why wasn't he here now, in bed beside her, warming her feet as he usually did, or reaching for her in his still shy and tentative way, half apologetic that he wanted her?

Then, just as quickly as the doubt had overcome her, she remembered Adam's parting call that morning as he'd gone out the door. Of course; he and Mr Harris had gone to a meeting with Charles Lucas, that man who wanted to hold some awful event to speak against immigrants. No doubt they had much to discuss.

A wave of relief claimed her, and she put her book on the bedside table before switching off the light and pulling up the coverlet to her chin to snuggle down comfortably. She wasn't thinking clearly today. Emotions running high because of the possible pregnancy, perhaps; or overtired from work. A bit confused by the men in her life, too, it seemed. No matter; a good night's sleep would see to it, and tomorrow would be better, with news from the doctor and time to reflect.

Though Sam fell asleep quickly, her dreams were fretful, filled with men chasing her with aimed pistols, and Foyle calling her name and telling her to be careful. Then all at once she found herself somewhere cold and dark, feeling a damp chill settling into her very bones. It looked a bit like the basement of the Del Mars' house, where she had hidden only last week from a gun-wielding ape of a man who wouldn't have thought twice about shooting her. Somewhere a pipe dripped steadily, the sound catching at her nerves and making her shiver. A shape loomed up out of the darkness unexpectedly beside her and she screamed, only to find herself stifled by warm lips descending onto hers.

Opening her eyes wide within the dream, she realised it was Christopher Foyle. He pulled the edges of his long overcoat around her, pressing her against him to keep her warm. The cold and dark no longer seemed to matter. She was here with him, being kissed with such tenderness; she felt a soft throb begin in her lower abdomen. A sudden desire overwhelmed her as she drank in his nearness. He had come to save her.

The increased pressure of his kiss made her groan. Christopher!

Sam woke with a start, feeling arms around her and hot breath against her cheek. Her eyes flew open as her heart raced, and she whispered with some feeling, "Adam?"

"Darling…" his voice was thick with desire through the darkness, and she felt him against her.

A pang of remorse went through her as she realised, in the moment Adam found the warmth of her, that his ease of entrance had very little do with his surprise midnight ministrations, and nearly everything to do with Christopher Foyle.

It had felt odd to slip out of the house early the next morning on the pretext of work, leaving Adam in the middle of his first cup of tea, only to drive in the opposite direction towards the hospital for her appointment. London was just waking up around her, it seemed, and there was a feeling of calm before the storm: before queues formed for the butcher's and baker's; before housewives began to see to their daily chores. Would she be doing the same, in a few months? Waiting dutifully on the pavement to procure rations for the week; nipping home with the basket bumping against her leg, to remind her of all the things she would never do again?

Never again to follow up leads in unsavoury parts of the city; never to battle again with unruly typewriters, nor feel a sudden thrill at fetching Most Secret documents; never to hang about waiting outside with the car, letting Mr Foyle get on with his investigations; never again to work, day in and day out, with him...

The sudden choking feeling of such a realisation clutched at her throat, making her gasp audibly as she slowed the car. She pulled over, hands trembling, insides writhing in alarm. Adam had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she would have to give up her work soon, no doubt worried about how it must look to others: his wife working when she should be at home looking after things for him. It reflected badly on him—were they in such a position that his wife had to go to work each day?

"Tell Mr Foyle," he had urged… but she had not mentioned it. She didn't want to stop working, and unless they threw her out, she wasn't going to. And now the thought of indeed being pregnant, of having to leave as other priorities took precedence, and losing the last scrap of independence she had clung to so eagerly, left her feeling empty and cold. She wasn't ready to go, as yet. How long had she and Mr Foyle worked together?

Six years… nearly seven? It might have been a mere six months, had her father taken her home to Lyminster as he had wished to. Working with the police on a dangerous coastline, with God only knew what in store—her father had found it entirely unsuitable. By some miracle, however, for which Sam had given daily thanks, the Reverend Stewart had decided that perhaps Sam was doing a useful job for the Police, and under the strict hand of DCS Foyle's constabulary, she would no doubt be safe as houses.

Sam had stayed in Hastings as Foyle's driver, and the following years, though full of hardship and apprehension due to war, had held some of the best moments of her life. She had loved it all; the independence and the chance to finally become her own woman, the sheer fun of being caught up the excitement of police work, sniffing out clues and helping Foyle's investigations. It was unthinkable to wonder what life might have been like without her time there.

The wave of realisation suddenly washed over her, chilling her to her core. Not to work with Mr Foyle every day… never to be with him and help him again, their contact perhaps reduced to paltry Christmas cards. She felt sick; the awfulness again closing in around her. Yanking the hand brake, Sam turned off the engine and stepped out, hardly able to stand the confines of the car and her own thoughts.

Last night she had dreamt of him; inappropriate and wrong though it may have been, it had been a dream. But this feeling that now threatened to crush her was real. She saw before her a void; a life bereft of Foyle. It frightened her, this recognition of unbefitting emotion. She wanted to be a good wife; to make a home and a family, and most of all, to be a decent person. But she had begun with the wrong man. For the man she had married drew her not at all; he might be anyone. They might make a marriage work, but a life together? No, indeed that would always be wanting, and deep down she knew with sudden desperation that everything hung in the balance.

It came upon her like the dawn, tendrils of light touching every corner of her being, allowing no shadow to remain. She saw herself stripped bare of all excuses and ideals, and saw only what remained: a desperate desire to be near him, now and always.

She burst into sudden tears, feeling drowned in her own thoughts. What should I do? Oh, what can I do?

Pacing briskly to and fro on the pavement near the car, Sam wrung her hands. It had always been there; why, oh why had she never realised? It was an impossible situation; with more than she alone standing to be hurt. Even he couldn't save her from such a mess this time. Nor could she possibly ask him to involve himself. A man of such upright morals, Foyle would quite firmly tell her that she would be making a mistake. He might even remove himself from the scene, much as he had done when he left for "unfinished business" in America, and that too would be unthinkable. To drive him away...

People were beginning to bustle around her, and Sam drew a deep breath to calm herself. There was no use in this line of thought; there was only one way forwards, step by step. The first thing was to see the doctor and find out what lay in store for them. Then perhaps, could she make a more practical decision.

Sliding back in behind the wheel, Sam looked in the rearview mirror, wiping her face with her handkerchief and trying to make herself look presentable. One step at a time, she told her reflection firmly. You can panic later…

TBC...