L'Aimant – Chapter 25 (M)

Summary:

(M-rated version of Chapter 25 of "L'Aimant")

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

Chapter 25: Foyle family members have a range of sensitive conversations. One of them wordless ;o)

Disclaimer:

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

Author's Notes:

For the T-rated version of this chapter, (and indeed for all other chapters of this fic), go to the story entitled, simply, "L'Aimant".

…

Dame Laura Knight RA RWS ROI (1877–1970, DBE 1929) was already a veteran artist in the realist tradition, and a pioneering painter of women, when the Ministry of Information's War Artists Advisory Committee commissioned her to paint war heroes of both sexes. She also produced arresting pictures of women engaged in war work, the most famous of which is that of a factory worker: Ruby Loftus Screwing a Breech-Ring (Google it—nothing risqué, I assure you).

In 1936 she was elected to the Royal Academy (RA), the first woman to receive the honour in nearly two hundred years. She was also an elected member of the Royal Watercolour Society and the Royal Institute of Oil Painters (ROI).

At the end of the war, Dame Laura actively sought an official assignment to paint the assembled Nazi leaders at the war crimes tribunals in Nuremberg. [If I had my way, Series 9 (or 8, depending on your numbering-preference) of Foyle's War would see Our Hero communing with Dame Laura as she sketches such a gallery of wickedness.]

Harold Knight RA (1874–1961), husband of Dame Laura, was a distinguished portraitist. He was a conscientious objector, and during the First World War was put to work labouring on a farm. His mental and physical health suffered as a result of harsh treatment by the authorities and his peers. Harold was elected to the RoyalAcademy in 1937, one year after his wife.

Both the Knights spent periods of their early lives in France. Laura attended school there until the age of 12, and Harold studied art in Paris.

...

Separated by a common language: Before I get any comments, 'faggot' in British English is a ball of chopped liver mixed with breadcrumbs and onion, and baked in a rich gravy. Available ready-made from UK supermarkets under the unfortunate brand-name 'Brains', in case you're interested. I like 'em.

...

dancesabove – thanks for weeding this overgrown patch of prose, and for excellent suggestions.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

Foyle fils broke off from massaging his shin-bone, and flexed his knee experimentally. Relieved to find it in working order, he stuffed his hands into his pockets yet again and resumed his restless stalking about.

This revelation called for serious thought. Might the child not be his father's? Had his sterling-hearted dad offered Sam marriage to cover her indiscretion with another man? God knows, his father had a soft spot for her. Or perhaps the indiscretion was his father's after all. A momentary mis-step for which his dad was duty-bound to make her reparation?

Andrew's tongue traced thoughtfully along the inside of his bottom teeth, weighing up the likelihood of either scenario. He had to concede that, knowing both players as he did, neither situation seemed particularly plausible. Added to which, the evidence of his eyes—that fevered under-stairs clinch—pointed to an active and ongoing passion. Fine. His dad had put Samantha in the family way, then married her. But clearly from the under-stairs behaviour he had witnessed, there was sexual desire both ways, and tender, shared affection. Dammit. That translated into one word: LOVE. Just as they had told him all along.

He looked at Georgie, who was scowling at him now through slitted eyes. Georgie's parents—age-gap marriage, clearly still together. Marriages like theirs could last, and, according to the evidence, be happy. Here before him was the living, breathing, kicking— oh-my-God-this-new-romance-is-going-for-a-Burton —proof.

Chapter 25

Lunchtime, Monday, 1st January, 1945

Georgie climbed the stairs, still miserable from the set-to with her disappointingly judgmental young man. With Andrew sent firmly to Coventry, all options for mixing with guests near her own age were exhausted. She missed Sam's company, and thought she might look in to see how she was getting on. More than an hour had passed since Sam had been carried upstairs to rest, and lunch was already being served.

Mr Foyle was half way down the stairs as Georgie started to ascend, and he gave her such a kind smile that she almost felt like crying. He was so nice. And sweet. And Andrew could just go and jump.

"I wonder… may I just stick my head round Sam's door?" she asked uncertainly, glancing up towards the landing.

"Sam'll be very pleased to see you." Foyle's warm acknowledgement made Georgie tingle from her ear-tips to her toes. Such a gentleman.

Foyle nodded down towards the dining room. "How's lunch coming along?"

Georgie grinned. A man after my own heart. "Delicious-looking spread, Mr Foyle. Mrs Allingham's a wiz without a wand." Sudden inspiration struck. "Shall I take some up for Sam? Will she be hungry, do you think?"

"Prrretty sure she'll be your friend for life if you turn up with food."

The lovely man was teasing her—and Sam. It felt amazing. Georgie altered course and joined Foyle on his way downstairs.

She glanced up at him shyly. Mr Foyle's eyes crinkled in the dearest way when he smiled. Andrew's eyes were cheekier. And his smile more open—full sunshine to his father's gentle glow. But Andrew didn't smile enough, she mused sadly. He brooded lots. And had uncharitable opinions that annoyed her. She'd a good mind to go and shake some sense into him. Or, if that failed, kick him in the other shin.

But after lunch would do.

"What sort of food does Sam like?" Georgie asked Foyle comfortably as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Foyle stretched out his arm, inviting the young lady to precede him. "Believe me,"—the trace of a lopsided grin crept across his features—"you can't go wrong."

Foyle parted company with Georgie in the entrance hall and wandered off to find his son. He found him propped against the frame of the French windows, staring gloomily across the garden.

He gestured at the lighted cigarette in Andrew's hand.

"You can't live on those things."

Andrew examined the smoking Dunhill cradled in his palm. "Can't live without 'em, Dad." Deftly he flipped the cigarette around, then took another drag, squinting sightlessly ahead.

Foyle sauntered up to stand beside him, lowering his eyeline. Then he sank his hands into his pockets and gazed into the distance. "I'm all ears, Andrew. Spit it out."

There was a pause. A steady stream of smoke escaped from Andrew's nostrils, and then the question came. "Is Sam expecting?"

That didn't take him long. Foyle pursed his lips. "ErYep."

Andrew turned hurt eyes towards his father. "You couldn't have just told me?"

"I just did."

"I mean, before." You awkward beggar, Dad.

"Hardly going to encourage further commentary, was I? Those three pages on RAF stationery were enough, thanks."

Andrew dropped his eyes, accepting the rebuke. "You know how fond I am of Sam."

Foyle inclined his head. He knew.

"And you know I love you, Dad."

"Never doubted it."

"So… I've got to ask you: Is it yours?"

Foyle grimaced as he weighed the question. For such a brief inquiry, it packed a hefty punch, and his immediate choices were to either pack a heftier one in payback, or to answer calmly. Given that the question was coming from his son. Who professed to love him.

Foyle's hands balled into fists, but stayed inside his pockets. "Prepared to let you have that one for free," he managed finally. "Mmmight even understand why you'd ask me? Answer's yes. It's mine. Don't ever want to hear that sentiment of doubt expressed again in any form or context. Sam… has nothing to reproach herself for. She's been… gracious enough to indicate that I don't, either—difficult for me to agree with her on that point—but I have everything to be thankful for about this marriage. Which, I might add, I feel both undeserving of and privileged to be in, in equal measure. Answer your question?"

Andrew scrunched his eyes tight shut. It wasn't often that his father spoke in paragraphs, but when he did, by God, he covered every angle.

"Dad, I'm really sorry that I had to ask."

His father's lower lip pushed out into a pout. "You had to ask. I chose to answer. Like to ask you something, now."

His penetrating blue eyes met his son's. "D'you actually believe I love Samantha?"

Andrew blinked, then nodded. Yeah, that's why I asked. "Yes, Dad. Yes, I really do."

"If you believe that, then your question was a pointless one."

Andrew looked perplexed. "I don't... how so?"

"Because there'd only ever be one answer to that question, from a man in love."

Silence fell between them. Andrew stared down at his cigarette. Something started pricking at his eyes. He thought that it must be the rising smoke.

Foyle gave his son a rueful look from under puckered eyebrows, then gestured towards his son's cupped hand. "Get you some food to go with that?"

Harold Knight peered eagle-like over his wife's right shoulder, avidly following the fluid movements of her arm. "The lips are wrong," he said at last.

"Tu crois? Attends…" Laura Knight applied herself to finishing her sketch, then arched an eyebrow, judging for herself. "You're right. The lips are wrong. But it's a simple matter to correct them. I'll ask the girl to pose for me in person, just as soon as she is feeling better."

"Samantha is unwell?"

Laura reached back with her hand to touch her husband's face, and trailed her fingers round his prominent chin. "Samantha felt a little dizzy. It will pass."

"Always a challenge to capture lips from memory," Harold observed.

"Never for you, my dear," recalled his wife emphatically. "Your sketches of me, when they sent you out to labour in the fields, were sheer perfection—allowing for the limitations of their subject!" A deep and fruity chuckle issued from her throat.

Harold clasped Laura's hand fondly in his own. "They tried to break my spirit, but you lit my way through those dark times, minette."

Composing himself, he squinted at the sketch. "I say again, the bottom lip is fuller." Harold reached to take the soft pencil from his wife's hand and, gliding it around the outline of the lip, coaxed it to fullness with his little finger.

"Absolutely so," she nodded. "It pouts so temptingly, inviting passion."

"In their day, your lips were fuller still than these, my dear. A wonder that we had no children, for the passion they invited."

"Our paintings are our offspring, Harold."

He gave a soft, good-natured laugh. "Then I should claim paternity for throngs of admirals and lords!" He leant upon her shoulders, studying the sketch. "I'd paint her in an instant. Such a quiet beauty. And her young companion, too."

Laura rose abruptly, carrying the sketch out of his reach. "Hands off! I saw her first, chéri. The Ministry are paying me, so be the gentleman you are and wait your turn. If you behave, I may permit you entry to my atelier to mix the paint."

Chuckling, Harold wagged a finger at his spouse. "Ah! Still one step ahead of me, minette."

"Far from it, Harold. Your technique has been the very rock on which I've built my reputation. And never once forget it."

Foyle watched his son pick at his food. It broke his heart; Andrew was hurting. Nothing to be done till this infernal war was at an end. Unless…

"You ought to get some fresh air. Take Miss Rose out for a spin in that fine roadster."

Andrew snorted. "Think I've burned my boats, Dad. Put my foot right in it, earlier today."

"Right." Foyle turned back to his apple cobbler. The cobbler part had more than a hint of spud about it, but he tossed it gamely round his mouth and swallowed anyway.

Andrew scanned the dining room. Most of the other guests had finished eating and then gravitated out into the salon. Rear Admiral Mervyn-Smythe (retired) was snoozing at the far end of the table. It gave them some degree of privacy.

He let his spoon drop back into his pudding dish. "Weary of it, Dad. Feels like I'm right out on a limb. I need… some down-to-earth normality." And something soft would be quite nice, as well.

Foyle's lip twitched underneath a frown. "Anything I can do to help?"

Andrew rested both hands, palms up, on the table. "Used to think I had a way with women. Turns out my father has a lot more luck than I do on that score. What's the knack, Dad?"

Foyle wasn't one to laugh out loud. 'A way with women'? Andrew thinks I have a way with women? He rubbed his nose, retaining a straight face. "Suddenly, you're asking my advice? Thought I was—and I quote—'delusional, in my dotage, and ought to have more sense'."

A groan from Andrew. "You said you'd binned the letter."

"Nnnot in so many words. To be accurate, I burnt it. But not before it burnt me."

"Dad… I've said I'm sorry."

"Yeah. You have. Look. Andrew." Foyle cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "God knows, I'm no expert in this field. But if you want my honest view, there isn't any knack. And, more importantly, there's no such thing as 'women'. While you think of them collectively, you're never going to get to where you want to be."

Andrew began to look enthusiastic, as if some light had dawned. "So, what you're saying is... it's like engaging with a German fighter; the battle's one-on-one. Germanity in general doesn't enter into it?"

Foyle sank his face into his hands and groaned. "It's not a battle, Andrew. Or a game. Everybody's on the same side. If they're not, then things are bound to end in tears." And even if they are, the outcome's often in the balance, he reflected privately.

His son's face took on a deflated look. "Deep down, I understand that. But it's just that, this time…"—he recalled his tender kiss with Georgie at the New Year's party, and brightened—"it felt… different, somehow. I was doing so well with Georgie, Dad. I really thought I'd cracked it. Then, this morning, I offended her."

There was one offence his son would not be guilty of, and Foyle dismissed it. "Well, of course you acted like a gentleman. So whatever you did do wrong can be repaired. Gain an understanding of how you hurt her. Then, if you value her, apologise. And mean it. But don't apologise unless you do. Remind yourself it's not a game."

"Haven't seen her since before lunch," grumbled Andrew, looking all around.

"I'm pretty sure she's upstairs with Samantha. Come up with me, and get her."

Sam glanced up as Christopher came into the bedroom. "Georgie thinks I might be low on iron. She's gone to see if Mrs Allingham has got a bit of liver for my evening meal. Oh. Hullo, Andrew."

Foyle nodded back towards the stairs for Andrew's benefit. "Well, there's your answer. Kitchen."

"Fine. I'll be off then in a sec. How are you, Sam?" Andrew strode up to the bed and bent to kiss her. She sized him up through narrowed eyelids, before presenting her cheek.

Foyle stood inside the doorway, chewing on his lower lip, and watched as Andrew knelt beside the bed and took her hand.

"Sam, please forgive me. Every idea in my head was wrong."

"More of a turnip than a head, if you ask me," huffed Sam, but now her eyes were dancing.

Andrew began examining her fingers. "I... er... Look. There's a train-set in the attic for when it's born... if it turns out to be a boy…"

Sam blushed, and shot a questioning look at Christopher. He splayed his hands. What could I do?

Sighing, she brought her other hand across to rest on Andrew's head. "I pray you'll be home safe and well before the baby's born," she told him softly. "So you can fetch it down yourself. And even if you get a sister, I expect she'll be mechanically-minded, just like me. Whatever happens, the train-set won't go to waste."

A vision of Samantha, shoulder-deep in an MTC inspection pit and anointed with machine-oil, came to Andrew's mind. He glanced up at her, openly amused. "Mechanically-minded—you? Do me a favour!"

Sam's jaw fell slack. Squinting her eyes, she turned to Christopher in mock indignation. "Is he yours? The fairies didn't swap him for a changeling in his cradle?"

Foyle wondered just how many times a day a man could reasonably be expected to vouch for the paternity of his offspring. "Hard to say," he mugged. "Boy didn't get his wings from me, at any rate."

Grinning, Andrew rose and gave Sam's hand a parting kiss. As he passed through the doorway, Foyle fed a hand around his son's shoulders. "Andrew? No more visitors up here till teatime at the earliest, hmm?"

"Fine, Dad. See you both at dinner."

Foyle closed the door behind his son, and locked it.

With the sound of Andrew's footfalls receding down the landing, Foyle perched beside his wife on the bed. "Feeling better, Sweetheart?"

"I feel a bit silly because of all the fuss, but otherwise quite well. Andrew knows, then."

"He asked me straight out. Wasn't about to lie."

"He seems all right about it."

"I think he's genuinely sorry. Things will be all right, now." He took her hand and stroked the back with his thumb.

"So anyway," Sam continued, "Georgie thinks the light-headedness might be down to lack of iron. I should eat more liver. Or nip outside periodically and gnaw on your railings."

"Neighbours might enjoy that. Where does Georgie get her medical opinions?"

"Turns out her father is the nice old chap who stands in for Dr Stirling at the Lyminster surgery. Small world."

"Well, you did wonder." Foyle paused, and placed a finger to his temple. "How old did you say he was?"

Sam smirked. "Not you, as well! He's seventy. And you're the last person who should be raising an eyebrow."

Foyle let the comment pass, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he sat, and rubbed a hand across his stomach. "Interesting puddings they serve here. Bloated. Feel like a lie-down."

"Poor dear. Over-fed. And overwrought with Andrew." Sam ran a hand up his forearm. "Come and lie by me."

Needing no further invitation, Foyle kicked off his shoes and sank back onto the mattress next to her, tucking both hands behind his head and allowing his eyelids to fall shut.

Propped with her back against the headboard, Sam looked down at him adoringly and reached across to rub his belly.

"Stop that, or there'll be trouble. Trying to rest. Need my energy for late fatherhood."

He might as well have told her 'come and get me' for all the good the order did. Sam wriggled down to lie beside him, turning on her side, and rested her head on the inside of his upper arm.

"I'm doing no harm."

"Not so far, but I'm watching you." He opened one eyelid a crack to check that she was settled. After a while, satisfied that Sam was planning to snooze with him, he closed his eye again, and brought his arm down to support her upper back and shoulders.

"Mmm. Nice," hummed Sam. "You locked the door?"

"You saw me do it."

"Jolly good."

For half a minute, Foyle actually imagined he would be enjoying an afternoon nap. Then it began. A tongue snaked out to trace around the shell of his ear.

"Sam. Knock it off."

"You don't always call the tune, you know. Was I stand-offish in the early hours when you were nuzzling for attention?"

Foyle grinned, his eyes still closed. "No, but I'm an old chap. There are limits."

"So you say. Let's see if we can find them." Her hand stole underneath his waistband. "Whoops," she smiled smugly, "something's pushing at the boundaries here."

He grasped her wrist and extracted her hand. "If you're low in iron, you need to save your strength."

"...or bump up my supply. There seems to be a ready source of iron in your trousers," she giggled.

"You'd be safer eating liver. Look. Sam. No sense denying the evidence at your, um, fingertips, but honestly, I don't want to have to scrape you off the dining room floor, later. I felt bad enough about this morning. So pack it in; there's a love."

"It's not my fault that you're irresistible. And you obviously want to." Again the hand snaked down towards his obvious wantingness.

He caught her forearm in a grip of steel. "This time, my brain's in charge. Just out of interest, what's making your decisions for you?" Tucking his chin into his chest, he fixed her with a reproachful stare.

"My heart. That's what." It was a small voice, not a little hurt, and verging on the tearful.

Foyle knew then that he teetered on the edge of discord. "Oh… what? No. Sam. Now. No tears. Please. There's absolutely no need to..."

He sighed in resignation. "All right. Fine. That's fine."

One-handed, he undid his trousers, and leant over her, anxious to repair the mood. "Only concerned for you, Sweetheart. Don't want anything we do—I do—to cause a problem."

Sam canted her neck and gave him a pleading look. "You have no idea how fed up I am of not being in charge of myself. And I can only imagine it will get worse as the weeks pass."

Foyle looked back at her with gentle eyes. "You mustn't fret, my darling. Millions of women do it every day. And you're one of the pluckiest I know. So how can I help, hmm?"

"Waistcoat off." She pushed at the flaps hanging loose over his torso. Foyle shucked the garment from his arms and tossed it at the tailboard. It slid onto the floor.

His eyes asked, And what now? but already Sam was at his shirt-buttons, starting at the collar and working down. When she got to his navel, she reached inside the open shirt and hooked up his vest, tracing her fingers round his belly button, and loving the sensation of the trail of hair that grew steadily wirier the lower that she sank her hand.

They locked lips as Sam's fingers closed around the rigid shaft inside his underwear, and the dance was on. A crisp-cuffed hand worked rapidly, unbuttoning the front of her blouse, pulling it from the waistband of her skirt. Foyle gently eased the soft beige silk-mix fabric aside to expose her satin lace-trimmed shift beneath. As his fingers moved to ply Sam's nipple through her underwear, he tilted his head to achieve a better angle on her mouth, and his tongue invaded there, producing tiny whimpers of relief from Sam that finally she had her way.

Squeezing his eyelids shut, and frowning against the intense arousal of Sam's hand upon his member, Foyle circled her tongue with his own, and deepened their wordless conversation. There was no time to be naked. An urgency was building in them both, demanding union without delay, and layers needed be circumvented rather than removed.

Foyle's hand departed from Samantha's breast and drifted lower, feeling for the hem of his wife's skirt. An instant later, the dark wool cloth was pushed up to above mid-thigh, exposing stocking-tops, suspenders, and six inches of soft ivory flesh, sprinkled with a fetching constellation of coffee-coloured moles. He slipped under the elastic strap of the suspender fastened to the back of Sam's stocking, and slid up to cup the ripe peach underneath her knicker-leg.

Sam felt herself drawn firmly towards her husband's hips, and bent her elbow, angling her wrist so she still kept her hold on him while their pelvises were flush against each other. "Darling," she breathed, drawing back from their kiss, "hurry. Please!"

Recapturing her lips with gusto, Foyle gathered his woman to him and embarked upon an ardent journey of fulfilment. As she arched against his lower body, he gripped her to him tightly, and with caring strength. Desire consumed them both in an insistent ache that begged to be assuaged.

Sam ran her stockinged leg along the outside of her husband's, still clad in his grey wool worsted trousers. His hand strayed from her bottom to trail down the silken flesh at the back of her thigh, and made a smooth transition to the gossamer gauze of her fine hose. Careful not to snag the precious stocking, Foyle traced the raised seam down her leg with his middle fingertip, until he reached the snug, perspiring spot behind her knee. Resting there a while, he stroked her with his thumb, eliciting a gasp of pleasure; then he hitched her leg up to his hip and held it in position with his palm behind her thigh.

"You'll have to guide me in," he panted, breaking from their kiss and pulling back from her a little way, to give her some space to manoeuvre. Sam shifted a few inches upwards towards the headboard, so that her lips were level with his forehead, and planted a tender kiss against the furrows of his brow. Slowly and with determination, she fed her husband up inside her, guiding the head to push aside the damp crotch of her knickers. His direction found for him, Christopher required no further help, and slid into her slick heat in one easy stroke.

"Love it. Love to be inside you," he growled, level once again with her mouth, and launched back with vigour into their caress. Sam's hand, now free to roam, pursued a silent quest around his loosened waistband to the spot she now knew well to be his weakness. In the small of his back, just above the base of his spine, a small mole acting as her marker, she began to circle with her fingertips, and tease him lightly with her nails. The feel of Christopher inside her was delight solidified. She felt him moan as he twitched against her inner walls and she answered with an inward squeeze—an amorous salute to the sweet comfort of his body joined with hers. "Darling," she purred in the soft interludes between the firm insistence of his tongue, "pure bliss. Oh, Darling…"

Foyle's lower hand was anchored round her waist, securing Sam against him. With his upper hand he delved inside her satin petticoat and brought out one delicious cushion of a creamy breast. The darkened areola was constricted with arousal, and the nipple stood erect, inviting his attention. He gave one solid thrust that sent Sam's head back, away from his invasion of her mouth. His lips migrated to the worship of her nipple, latching onto its grainy-textured sweetness. She tasted of Pond's cold-cream, overlaid with accents of L'Aimant—his first olfactory awareness of her melded now with all the passion of complete possession. How far they'd come since first he'd caught her scent, and now he had her—body, soul and mind—and felt so blessed, there were no words but only actions to express the depth of his investment in this woman. In Samantha Foyle, his love, his wife, the mother of his child-to-be. And so he spoke to her the only way he could when words fell short of adequate. He milked her with his lips and let her milk him with her core. He fed himself to her in steady, languid strokes that told her she was everything he dreamt of and desired. And he heard her keen with pleasure at his wordless worship.

Wordless, perhaps, but voiceless by no means. Deep groans of ecstasy escaped him, and Sam's mewls and whimpers spoke directly to his pleasure centres, driving all rational thought from his brain. Foyle's body did indeed control him now, and it no longer stopped at Christopher. It was merged into another being no longer separate from his. And their reason for existing was a single impetus to reach fulfilment.

Among the rising moans and steady climb to rapture, Samantha suddenly flicked her hips, and Christopher's steady rhythm was jolted into frenzy.

Anchored in her husband's strong embrace, Sam felt the thrilling shift in the measure of his thrusts, and let out a sharp gasp. Her core, already engorged from the delightful friction of their coupling, leapt at the sudden increase in his pace and subtle alteration in his angle. A white-hot arrow of sensation shot from her nub to the tips of her toes, setting her legs a-tremble round him. Then came a low, warm throb inside her abdomen, impelled by Christopher's wild thrusts. Delicious spasms of completion spread through her body, and Sam convulsed around him with staccato cries of "Oh!... Oh, God!... Oh, Darling..."

Sam's jerks and moans of ecstasy propelled him to his own undoing. Foyle's last few thrusts were as deep as they were forceful. Then he succumbed, shuddering, to the music of Sam's exuberant cries, burying his face in her hair, his lips locked to her neck.

Tranquillity descended on them in the wake of tumult. They luxuriated in the limpness of their bodies, their essence seeping from the place where they had joined. And as their breathing evened, they relaxed their hold on each other, settling into a loose embrace.

After a few moments, the power of speech returned.

"These clothes are going to look a little rumpled, Sweetheart." Foyle leaned back and scrutinized his dishevelled angel. He drew his brows together. "I— I've marked you, I'm afraid. Really no excuse for that. I'm sorry."

Sam's hand reached up to touch her neck, then shifted to stroke his face. "No matter, Darling. It won't show underneath my collar. But I consider it a badge of honour, anyway."

They lay together afterwards in the same position where they'd started. Sam's breath was gentle in his ear, and they had snoozed a little after all.

Christopher held her slim fingers in his larger hand and wondered what he'd done to merit so much happiness. Sam stirred and stretched against him, and he gently eased her into a more comfortable position on her back. Turning to her, he propped himself up on his elbow, close against her side.

"You happy, Sam?" he studied her face intently, loving every curve and plane. Her dark honey lashes flickered open, and she smiled a little wistfully.

"I am. Of course I am. It's just..."

Foyle's brows contracted, and he felt the pleasure seeping from his veins. She wasn't happy?

Sam struggled to express the wistfulness that tugged at her. "I just... I wish I could do something you can't."

Foyle bit his lip and slid a hand to rest across her belly. "I can't do this."

She shook her head impatiently. "That isn't what I mean, my darling."

"Well, I think that's amazing enough, frankly."

"No. I mean, professionally, or publicly."

"Ah," he said.

And what else could he say? He knew something of this longing for fulfilment from his first marriage. Rosalind had found escape from things domestic in her painting, to some degree. And Foyle didn't doubt that, if she had lived, she would have found more outlets for her talents and her energies once Andrew grew more independent of her. But Sam had had a taste of freedom early in her life.

Twice in his lifetime, then, he'd managed to clip a woman's wings. And this time it had happened in a climate of change, the pull of which made Sam's aspirations even more compelling than the ones that Rosalind had felt.

Christopher sat back against the headboard, and hauled his young wife up to lean against him. "Sam, I've no doubt that before my time is up, you'll be doing plenty of things I can't, professionally and publicly. I've had a head start of a quarter of a century, but you have so much time ahead of you—and there'll be opportunities." Sam snuggled into him, and he went on, "When I retire, you'll still be in your thirties. Plus," he tucked in his chin and scrutinized her, winking into her upturned face, "I'm housetrained. I can cook. Come home from work, I'll have your dinner on the table. And your blouses ironed."

Sam sighed. "That sounds like heaven. What a lovely vision of the future."

"Just one thing I should warn you of," he told her solemnly. "You might get sick of eating fish."

Andrew knew the Howards' kitchen well. He'd sat there often enough in his youth, getting under capable women's feet.

When he was fifteen, having lost his mother the previous year, he'd sat there in the summer months and dodged the garden heat, while Mrs A had quenched his thirst with home-made lemonade, and indulged him with the occasional glass of scrumpy cider.

"Long time since you set in my kitchen, ennit, Andy-boy?" Mrs Allingham peered lazily round at Andrew from her position at the sink.

Georgie looked up, startled from her task. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea beside her, a large enamel bowl of carrots before her, and a sharp knife in her grasp.

"Hello, Mrs A. That was a lovely lunch, and thank you." Andrew lowered himself into a chair opposite Georgina.

"Would you like them sliced or julienne, Mrs Allingham?" Georgie asked, pointedly ignoring Andrew.

"Sliced, I reckon. Wouldn't know a Julie-Anne if et bit me."

"I'll help," Andrew told her. "We'll be finished quicker. Then you can come for a spin with me while it's still light. Got another knife?"

"No," said Georgie, sullenly.

"Top left drawer of that there dresser." Mrs Allingham craned her neck to indicate behind her.

Andrew fetched the knife and settled to his task, moving his chair round next to Georgie, much to her chagrin. She shifted hers another foot away from him to make a point.

With a quick glance round at them, Mrs Allingham sized the situation up. Andrew was looking intently at Georgina, rather than at the carrot in his hand.

"You mind yerself, now. That knife's middlin' sharp. What're you thinkin' on, Andrew? Can' abide sliced fingers in me casserole. You know this lad, then, Georgie?"

"We've met," said Georgie coolly.

Mrs Allingham thought she might just add a little seasoning. "Never see sech a sight in the world as this'en, Georgie, when 'e come into my kitchen fust. I tell you summat—fell in a bunch o'neddles, didn'ee? T'ather side of th'ouse. 'Is legs were middlin' fierce wi' weals. But never made a peep, mind. 'Ee weren' alf limpin', though!"

"I remember that!" cried Andrew. "What was I? Fifteen?"

"An' still in short trousers, poor soul. You'd been jumpin' the brook."

Georgie snorted, mouthing 'jumping the brook', and rolled her eyes.

"What's funny?" scowled Andrew.

Mrs Allingham pressed on with her story. "Mrs Howard'd just 'ad the new fridge delivered, so I filled a bowl wi' ice and Andy sat in it."

"I bet that cut you down to size," remarked Georgie, and chopped the end off a large carrot.

When they left the kitchen ten minutes later, Mrs Allingham was making liver faggots for Samantha's dinner.

****** TBC ******

More soon.

GiuC