Title: Mrs. Konstantin
Author: Wolseley37
Rating: Mature
Content: Foyle/Elsa Konstantin/Hugh Reid/Andrew
Timeframe: Spring and Summer 1936
Disclaimer: The characters in Foyle's War were created by Anthony Horowitz. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.

A/N:
After watching the episode, The Russian House, set in June of 1945, I couldn't help but imagine that there must have been some history between Foyle and Elsa. She was quite willing to help him with information, at some risk to herself, and clearly she must have done so in the past. At the end she was happy to take in young Nikolai as an employee in her coffee shop, perhaps as a favour to Foyle.
And I should mention the spur to the imagination given by the intriguingly attractive actress cast in the role of Elsa, Eleanor Bron.
I've made Andrew 12-13 in this story, as he did say to Sam once that he was 8 when his mother died, so it's close. Just doesn't jive with him going up to Oxford in three years, does it (*cough*Horowitz*)?

This story was written as an entry in the 2014 Birthday Challenge, and sent to participants only in very limited circulation.

Posted on The Quietly Enigmatic Forum, Nov. 28, 2014

Thanks to GiuliettaC for her kind assistance with the Russian language and those tricky name endings.

Mrs. Konstantin

Foyle had noticed her straight away, a strikingly handsome, grey-eyed beauty. Sad-eyed, too - weren't all Russians sad? - with a luxuriant mane of sable hair, prematurely greying, arranged artlessly in a loose chignon. Keeping herself to the back of the extraordinary group that had arrived all together at the Police Station one day, he had seen that she had watched everything closely, eyes following each speaker, including himself. Undoubtedly she spoke, or understood, English, but kept that to herself, a useful secret in unknown territory.

She was one of a dozen White Russian émigrés who had pitched up on Hastings' shores, in a manner of speaking, last year, late leavers from the Soviet Republic, by way of Sweden, Brussels and Paris. They had travelled by various routes, stayed varying numbers of years in each previous location. Since their arrival, they had mostly kept to themselves, establishing small businesses, offering services they had seen a need for in their new town.
The reason he was having to interfere with and delve into their tight-knit circle was the unfortunate incident of an accusation of theft levelled at one of the more august figures by another. The injured party had sought outside, and official, help. Foyle, as senior Detective Inspector, had felt it best to take the matter on personally.

She had dressed plainly that first day, perhaps in an effort not to be seen as exotic. But in the café where she worked, one that catered to her fellow exiles, and where he conducted further interviews, her dress was just a little foreign, and usually accented with an intricately-patterned, multi-coloured shawl or scarf.
She was older than himself, but perhaps by only a few years. Mid-forties, he calculated. Or was it that the distress of her experiences had aged her beyond her years?

During the course of the investigation Foyle had learned that Elsa Konstantin was unconnected by blood or previous aquaintance to any of the others, except for the older man who called himself her uncle. Her husband, he had learned from that gentleman, was assumed to have died several years earlier, leading a regiment of the White Army in continued, and increasingly futile, fighting against the Bolsheviks. But his death had never been confirmed, and so she was in a continuing limbo of not quite mourning.

Elsa had only gradually grown curious about the polite, calm and unflappable English policeman who had agreed to sort out the dispute between Baron Aminoff and General Yudenich. She had been impressed by his quiet diplomacy, and over the course of the investigation it was clear to her that he had made some effort to learn, and to understand, more of the background of each person he interviewed. He had done research quite beyond what a policeman would be expected to do, taking into account details of their political and personal histories at home and of the circumstances of their exile. Thankfully, she thought, there was very little to be discovered about herself that would be of any significance in his inquiry.

She had been surprised when he had approached her uncle and requested her help as a translator. How had he found out she knew English? How could he know that she, of all of them, had no prior relationship with any of these people which could colour her attitude to the dispute? Being invited to participate in the matter gave her a new, trusted role amongst her fellow émigrés, one that soon bridged the gap that had separated her from the others since their arrival. Mr. Foyle seemed to have sensed, and placed his confidence in, her neutrality, and this she found intriguing.

After that she studied him more closely, as they worked together during several interviews, and her awareness of his personal charm and attractiveness began to grow. Mr. Foyle, she noticed, was a good looking man, in age perhaps a few years younger than herself. He was not tall, but tall enough to carry himself with authority and presence. A little taller than herself, which pleased her. His thick, dark brown hair, neatly trimmed, had a tendency to curl into captivating little waves, and was just beginning to show a touch of distinguished grey at the temples.

As he conducted the investigation, his questions were always brief and to the point, yet even with the language barrier, waiting for her to translate his words, he had a way of drawing out further information from the subjects of his interviews with an inviting raised brow, a piercing glance, a movement of his head, or a twist of his lips that, privately, she found quite droll.

It was his eyes that drew her particular attention, a remarkable blue - serene, amused or icy at times, their colour subtly changed with his reactions to the people he dealt with. And there was a touch of sadness in them, when at rest, between interviews, that appealed to her Russian soul. What was the cause of his sadness? He had caught her more than once studying his profile, but had made no remark. Of course he had volunteered no details of his private life, and she had not presumed to ask for any. Yet as she worked in the café, busied herself in the rooms above it, or walked alone along the seafront, she found herself wondering about him, and decided she wished to know more.

But too soon his investigation ended. Mr. Foyle arranged a successful settlement of the matter for all concerned. And so she let go of her curiosity about him. She did not expect she would see him again.

For Foyle it had not been too difficult a case, as a crime, but it had taken his most diplomatic bearing and professional dispute resolution tactics to navigate through the mysterious connections amongst the various passionate personalities and to placate the outraged imperiousness of the now shabby minor nobility who figured in the events.
The matter was soon solved, the guilty man confronted with the evidence and dealt with, old friends reconciled and ruffled feathers smoothed.

Why, then, should he find himself, at the end of the following week, quite off his usual homeward route, walking down the street towards the small tea and coffee house owned by the elderly uncle - if that was, indeed, the relationship - of Mrs. Elsa Konstantin?

He hesitated on the pavement a little distance from the door, wondering what reason he could give to explain his reappearance - there were no loose ends to be tied up, no unfinished business - when it occurred to him that he might simply say he had enjoyed the coffee she had made for him. He certainly had.

Foyle squared his shoulders and approached the door more determinedly, pushed it open and ducked to remove his hat as he entered. When he raised his head their eyes met instantly. Elsa stood behind the serving counter in a plain apron over a sepia-coloured floral print frock, beside the elaborate brass samovar, and bestowed upon him an amused, knowing smile. A smile, he thought, that gave her the air of a woman with secrets, a woman who attracted others with secrets around her, and seemed to be willing to take on more secrets from near strangers.
He didn't consider himself a secretive person, merely a private one.

She greeted him in that fascinating, sultry voice of hers,
"Meester Foyle. How good to see you again."
"And you, Mrs. Konstantin."
"Do you wish to talk with my uncle? I will send someone to fetch him."
"Nno. Not at all. Just, er, came for the excellent coffee."
Another knowing smile,
"A leetle cream, no sugar?"
Was there a hint of a blush on her cheeks? He crinkled his eyes at her,
"Got it in one."
Her confident grin faded slightly, and he corrected his answer,
"Er... Yes, that's right, thank-you."

He had learned in the course of previous discussions with her, while employing her in the role of translator, that she welcomed the opportunity to practice English conversation. She had been speaking only French for the past two years, she had told him, and was a little rusty. He rather fancied the idea of helping her practice, and so he would try to be less laconic than his usual habit. There were only a handful of patrons in the place, and her easy manner suggested their talk would not be understood or listened to.

"You are finished work for today, Meester Foyle?"
"I am...finished with work today, and for the weekend, I'm pleased to say."
"You are not hurrying home to your dinner?"
She saw his little frown of dismay at the question, and hoped it was only due to the natural reticence of an Englishman. Fearing she had offended him, or had inadvertently touched on the cause of his sadness, she lowered her gaze as she handed his coffee cup across the counter.
Then he surprised her by answering quite fully.
"Em, nno. My son is away from home for a few days, playing a football match. His mother...mmy wife...died, some years ago. It's just the two of us, now."
Elsa met his eyes, her brows bent in sympathy,
"Oh, Meester Foyle, I am very sorry. And...I did not mean to intrude."
He gave a little tilt of the head,
"Nnot at all. It's, um, still...difficult to mention it."
"Yes. How long has it been, if I may ask?"
He gave a small sigh,
"Four years...and three months." He pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, then gave his attention to tasting the coffee, and attempted a smile as if apologising for his sad history,
"...This is very good."
Without pausing to consider, she rested her hand over his on the countertop,
"I am sorry for your loss. How old is your son, Meester Foyle?"
He gazed at her hand on his as he answered,
"Andrew is thirteen."
"It is a tragedy for a child to lose his mother."
"It is." He nodded once, his head angled in consideration,
"He's...coping with it better, now."
"Time heals the wound." She gently pressed his hand before reluctantly taking hers back, and offered warmly,
"But if you have no dinner plans, you must allow me to make you something."
At his moue of polite resistance to her invitation, she countered,
"I insist."
"Well, wwill you join me, Mrs. Konstantin?"

In a short time, Elsa had bid goodnight to the last patrons and closed and locked the café door, then, as a further measure to ensure their privacy, pulled down the roller blinds. She removed her apron, hung up his overcoat and hat on the stand, and they sat together at one of the little tables, talking over a glass of wine.
"...Your uncle, Mr. Denikin, nnot dining with you tonight?"
"He has one of his meetings, his 'clubs.'" She arched a beautifully-shaped eyebrow and waved her hand towards the far wall, presumably in the direction of her uncle and his compatriots, "Some of them wish to establish a salon, like they had in Paris. For intellectual and literary discussion."
"Ah. Em...admirable." He raised his brows in approval.
"But often it turns to politics..."
She smiled in amused tolerance, then continued lightly, looking off in the same direction as if fondly watching her protector and his friends animated in silent debate,
"...I do not expect him. He will stay tonight at the General's. And perhaps not return until tomorrow afternoon."
Foyle lowered his chin and bit his lip, considering the implications of her disclosing this to him.

He kept out of her way in the kitchen, watching and conversing with her as she prepared dinner. And then they shared dishes Foyle had never tasted before - beef stroganoff which he quite enjoyed, and kholodets, which, when she brought it out to their table, he was relieved to see was nothing more exotic than a meat and vegetable aspic. There was Olivier salad on the side, and Elsa regaled him with the old story of the sous-chef, Ivanov, who attempted to steal the recipe from the celebrated head chef, Lucien Olivier, of the famous Hermitage restaurant in Moscow, and had not quite succeeded. Foyle, in turn, managed to make a humorous anecdote out of what had really been a rather sad instance of failure, in cooking for his son one of his late wife's favourite dishes.

As they ate, they chatted about Russian history, and the future prospects of Russia under the Bolsheviks, each impressing the other with the breadth and depth of their knowledge.
Foyle eventually found the opportunity to ask,
"Your...husband, er, still no word, Mrs. Konstantin?"
"Nothing at all. It seems there is no one who will confirm or deny his death. But...it has been more than seven years since we have heard anything of him."
"If you don't mind my asking, do you... have a feeling about it, yourself, a sense of his fate?"
She gave him a soft-eyed smile tinged with melancholy,
"That is a rather... romantic notion, for a policeman, is it not, Meester Foyle?"
He wasn't affronted, but smiled self-consciously and bowed his head,
"Perhaps it is. You needn't answer. But, em... yyou could call me Christopher."
Now he met her cloud-grey eyes, and saw them subtly light with pleasure at the invitation.
"Chreestopher. Please call me Elsa."
He acknowledged her invitation with an inverted smile and a nod,
"Elsa."
"And... I will answer your question." She rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin on her interlaced fingers,
"Sometimes...I am sure he must be gone, there is an emptiness. But at other times I feel...a living connection, a communication of the spirit... I cannot say how, but, yes, I sense Sergei is still in this world. And so...I wait." She gave a patient sort of smile that emphasized the fullness and the sensual curve of her lips.

Elsa persuaded him to try a small piece of lymonnyk for dessert, with more coffee, after they'd discussed the meaning of the idiom 'to have a sweet tooth.' He said he hadn't, and she confessed she did.

Foyle helped with the clearing up, removing his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves, surprising her with his quite able domestic skills. Afterwards she suggested cognac. He agreed happily as he replaced his cuff links and slipped into his jacket, but then was again momentarily a little disconcerted when she insisted they enjoy it upstairs, in the flat she shared with her uncle.
"Cognac should be savoured in comfort, by the soft light of the fireside, don't you agree?"
He smiled his concession to this nod to continental sophistication, and followed her up the back stairs that led to her living quarters.

They sat in handsome wing-back chairs on either side of the small hearth, each gently swirling the amber liquid around the bowl of the gold-rimmed and embossed snifters they warmed in their hands. He was curious about the elaborate monogram on the glass, but didn't ask. Elsa offered him a Sobranie cigarette, but he declined and so she abstained.

They talked further, of his life in Hastings, of wars, of proper pursuits in peacetime, of books and poetry. Foyle found he was more and more fascinated by her voice, her accent, the allure of her eyes, and he knew he didn't wish to go.
But when the small ornamental clock on the mantelshelf chimed the late hour, for form's sake he thanked her for her hospitality, for dinner and for the brandy, and with a sincere smile rose to take his leave. Elsa rose, too, and moved to stand with him, taking his hand.
She looked up very directly into his eyes, and said softly but matter-of-factly,
"Of course you will stay, Chreestopher. I like you very much. And why should either of us be alone tonight, when we might be together...?"
With a nervous swallow, he found he had no argument against the idea.
She lifted his hand and pressed it to her cheek, closing her eyes and turning to kiss his palm. At that touch he moved close, sliding his arm around her waist, as the last of his reluctance dissolved. His momentary frown of anxiety transformed into the concentration of desire, and their lips met in an ardent and mutually grateful kiss. Then Foyle's brow smoothed in surrender to what she was offering him.

Elsa led him by the hand to her small bedroom. He couldn't stop himself from consciously and rapidly taking in the information it's furnishings and decoration revealed about her. The double bed draped and canopied in fine Russian linens and tapestries, acquired in recent years - in France, he surmised. A small icon on the wall, but nothing else to suggest an overt or excessive religious devotion, which might have given him pause. Clearly all of the furniture was British-made, the room accented with just a few small items brought from her homeland, evidence of the difficulty of their flight from violent revolution. He glimpsed on the bedside table a framed photograph of a proud older man in ornate uniform, and he was satisfied of the truth of all she had told him.

Elsa quickly laid the small portrait face down, out of respect for both her missing husband and the gentleman who was about to become her lover.
She turned, raising smoke-grey eyes to him, hands at her sides as if delivering an oath,
"You are the only man to share my bed, since I left Saint Petersburg."
"Th-then I must ask...why, Elsa?"
She smiled enigmatically,
"Because...you are kind, you are beautiful, and you are sad, and that is irresistible to someone like me."
She came to stand before him so that he would put his arms around her, and he held her close.
"...And because I hoped you would return to see me...and you did."
Elsa rested her head on his breast and gave a sigh at this respite from her long trial of loneliness. Foyle brought a hand up to stroke her magnificent hair, and her cheek with the backs of his fingers, then pressed his lips to her brow.
"You...drew me to you, Elsa. I... couldn't resist. Didn't want to. Don't want to."

He bent to her with a gentle, searching kiss. She was only a little below his height, and they melded together perfectly, it seemed, as they held each other, caressed and explored each other. They were both old enough, experienced enough, to avoid fumbling haste, yet passionate enough to be somewhat carried away by rising excitement.
Trembling a little, she began undressing him, pushed his jacket from his broad shoulders, removed his tie and waistcoat, dropping each item on a nearby chair. Breathing deeply and slowly, he was not so bold with her, hesitating to open and remove her clothing, only smoothing his hands over her enticing curves through the layers of her frock and undergarments. Elsa placed her hands over his and guided him gently to unfasten or unbutton as needed.
He murmured worriedly against her loosened hair,
"Elsa...I haven't, um, brought, em..."
She smiled to herself, and arched an eyebrow at him,
"...Pyjamas, Chreestopher? No. ...Don't give it a thought, it is not needed."
He raised an eyebrow back at her in skeptical query, and she explained with an expressive shrug,
"That part of life is over for me. ...Perhaps you thought I was younger, nearer your age? I am, I think, six or seven years your senior."
He gallantly smiled and nodded his understanding, then took her head in both his hands and kissed her deeply, pressing himself close to demonstrate his undiminished desire.

Before they were quite naked, to ensure their mutual comfort and confidence, she sent him down the hallway to the bathroom, carrying a richly-coloured, quilted dressing gown of her uncle's, then they traded places, pausing to kiss again as they passed each other on the threshold of the bedroom.
Foyle draped and folded his clothes neatly on the chair, and stood waiting for her, biting the inside of his cheek, feeling nowhere near at home enough to sit or get into the bed, his heart pounding and eyes roving around the small but fascinating room.
Elsa soon returned in an attractive Parisian robe, her long dark hair brushed out and flowing around her shoulders. She came to him, embraced him, pressed her palm to his cheek, looking up into his eyes very seriously,
"You are not to feel any guilt over this, afterwards, Chreestopher..."
"Nnnor you, Elsa, I trust?"
"No. I won't. ...And if we enjoy ourselves, perhaps...?"
He smiled crookedly in response, and by his smile she understood it was entirely likely they would enjoy themselves, and also that he would indeed welcome further encounters.

Christopher now took the lead, watching her eyes as he untied the sash of her robe, caressing and fondling her eagerly, drawing her last garment off her shoulders and shedding his. They were soon naked on the bed, the covers pushed down to the footboard. Elsa, he found, was especially stimulated by his mouth on her full and luscious breasts, surging and keening with delight. He focused his attentions there, massaging and suckling, as she gasped and moaned. Lying on his side next to her, before he'd ventured even to touch her below, he sensed her excitement rising, and redoubled his efforts, stroking with tongue and fingers on her peaked, hardened nipples, and was amazed to feel her whole body stiffening, then her motions suspended in plateau, and finally shuddering in the unmistakable throes of orgasm.

Curling up against him, grinning with astonished happiness, she panted,
"Oh..., my god, Chreestopher...! How did you know...?"
"Ssimply, um, paying attention..." He smiled, running his fingers through her wild mane, "And there's no need to rush things, is there...?"
"No need at all... But it has been my experience that a man... sees to his own needs first."
"Well, it's my experience...that there are more delights to be had if I wait my turn."

With bright eyes he grinned mischievously at her, kissed her mouth hungrily, and slid down her voluptuous figure, his hands gently pushing her onto her back again, spreading her shapely thighs. His tongue found her deliciously wet and slick, and she was soon writhing and moaning again with the pleasure of it. He reached up to grasp one of her hands, and she ran the fingers of the other through his thick hair, encouraging his motions.
In moments she was begging him,
"Please, Chreestopher... Come to me now...I want you now...!" She breathed with anxious lust. He complied readily, rising onto his knees, and she gazed down with eager anticipation at his proud and throbbing erection.

"Ah, moy zherebets...!" She exclaimed with admiration, and he could only assume, as he wiped his face on his upper arm, that she was pleased with what she saw.

He bent forwards between her thighs, over her ripe, inviting body, planted a hand beside her on the mattress, and with the other made sure of his entry. At her low shout of pleasure, and her repeated cries of,
"O bozhe!" and knowing there were no neighbours to overhear, he was encouraged in his own expression, and they freely growled and sobbed their ecstasy together with each powerful surge and withdrawal.
"Oh...Chreestopher!" She moaned over his straining shoulder, wrapping her thighs around his hips, "You- Vy delayete menya shastlivym!"
In some remote, still-cognitive part of his mind he was amused and flattered that he had apparently driven the English language right out of hers.

The glorious embrace of her legs around his back and her deeper welcome soon brought him to the edge of climax. With a shout of exquisite torment he raised his head to look into her eyes, but they were rolled back under fluttering lids, her mouth forming a perfect oval, and he grinned in gasping triumph, until she suddenly worked some inner magic and began squeezing him more tightly.

"Ahh! Chriisttt...! Now, Elsa, now...?" He begged between heaving breaths.
"Daaa...! Da! Da!" She groaned in rhythm with their thrusts, and he was fairly certain she wasn't calling for her father.
Then at last they plunged together into the abyss of ecstatic physical release, crying out in joyous gratitude.

As Elsa regained her composure, she took an almost motherly care of him, drawing the sheet up over his shoulders, settling his head on a pillow, offering him water from a carafe on the bedside table.

"Ai...ai...," she crooned softly, stroking her fingers through his thick, close cut curls, covering his face with little kisses, "Such...energy, ...such...stamina!"
Lying on his back enjoying her attentions, chest rising and falling from the unaccustomed exercise, eyes shut as he subsided into total relaxation, Foyle began to rethink his general resignation to the inevitability of aging, and even to reconsider joining the police football team for the match in Germany that summer.
"Ohh, my magneeficent lover..." Elsa murmured, laying her head on the pillow beside him and watching his profile.

He opened his eyes, grinning happily, and rolled over to draw her close.
"Mmm-my beautiful darling..."

Section Footnotes:

I sincerely hope none of you speak or read Russian! I don't, and translation apps are not very reliable. GiuC offered assistance, and we've corrected what may have been Slovenian into a better approximation of Russian.

"Ah, moy zherebets...!" I'm hoping this is near enough to 'Oh, my stallion!'
(Also, I couldn't resist a sly reference to the spurious rumour of Catherine the Great & her equine predilection.)

"O bozhe!" = 'Oh lord!' (because 'Moy bog!' just doesn't sound sexy to English ears.)

"Vy delayete menya shastlivym." = 'You are making me very happy.' Or something like that. If 'vy' is the more formal 'you' then I think that works better, and perhaps is a bit funny, as they have only known each other a short time.

"Da!" = 'Yes!'

Foyle spent the night and the next morning with Elsa, and after that first encounter their affair continued on very pleasantly, though in secret. As Spring warmed into early summer their attraction warmed to affection, and affection warmed to love, and they began to talk, hesitantly, about a future together.

Their separate circles of friends remarked on their new quiet cheerfulness, and each offered the excuse of the improving weather as the reason for the change.
For Foyle it was, of course, Hugh Reid who first questioned him outright,
"If I didn't know you so well, Christopher, I might suspect there was a lady involved..."
But he would admit to nothing.

At home one Saturday morning, when Andrew happened to have no chums ringing at the door to call him away, the lad sat at the breakfast table shoveling his bacon and eggs and toast into his mouth at a somewhat slower rate than usual. Looking up from his Boys' Own Paper and observing his father reading placidly, absently humming a tune to himself, a puzzled frown gradually furrowed his blithe brow, and he emerged from his adolescent self-absorption to remark,
"Dad, we haven't been fishing in ages. You haven't even asked me for weeks. Have you been going on your own?"
"Mm-No. Nope. Just haven't gone to the river for a while." And Foyle rattled his newspaper into a quarter-sheet before peeking an eye around the side.
"D'you want to go, son...?"
Andrew surprised his father by giving the matter more than a few seconds of thought.
"Well..., no, not today..., but I sort of miss it, I reckon. We haven't been since April."
"Hmm. Be a fine day for it, if you do, em...?"
"No, it's all right. Me and Rex are-."
"Rex and I." Foyle corrected dutifully, and automatically.
"Rex and I - are still building that model 'plane. When he's back from his Nan's I'm going over. ...What're you doing today, Dad?"
"M-me?" He squinted an eye, considering how to answer.
"Shouldn't that be 'I'?" Andrew interrupted cheekily.
Foyle grinned and reached over and rubbed his fingers through his son's hair,
"No, it shouldn't. Erm, sure I'll find something to occupy myself, em. ...What time are you going to Rex's?"
"He'll ring me." Then Andrew gave his father a long look,
"You've seemed...different, Dad."
"Different...?" He raised his brows in mild interest and feigned reading the newspaper again.
"Yeah. You're... I dunno. Happier."
"Oh...well...must be the warm weather... and the sunshine." With a quick flash of his eyebrows he got up to clear the table.

After another full week of exceptional good humour, and a few actual broad smiles from his usually reserved, if not quite dour, friend, Hugh Reid decided he'd try again. And so, one evening, after the detective's polite and rather preoccupied refusal of an after-work drink, he cornered his colleague by standing solidly in the doorway of his office. The tall uniformed Inspector came forward into the small space, forcing a slightly miffed Foyle to back up and retreat to his desk, then he closed the door to show he meant business.
Reid sat down to conduct an interrogation,
"Look, Christopher, something's up. You'd best tell me. The men will soon be remarking on it, and that will only lead to speculation, and then to rumours."
"For god's sake, Hugh, can't a man occasionally show an improved frame of mind without-?"
"You're positively grinning these days. The Chief asked me outright. Rivers said he'd heard you humming."
"He's mistaken."
Reid raised his head, giving a stern look of reproach,
"It was 'Cheek to Cheek' by Irving Berlin."
Foyle twisted his mouth to one side.
"...So, look, if you've found someone who makes you happy - and clearly you have - you know I'll certainly wish you joy. Of course it's nobody's business but your own, but, em..., well, Christopher, given the nature - the occasional danger - of our work, someone else ought to know her name, wouldn't you agree? I'll be absolutely discreet."
Drawing in his chin, and looking across his desk at his insistent colleague, Foyle bit the inside of his lower lip for a moment, then nodded,
"Well, that's a valid point. Um..., all right, Hugh. Listen. D'you remember that delegation of Russians that turned up here, 'bout a month-and-a-half, two months ago...?"

And so he told his closest friend about his new love, about her long-missing husband, and about their plans to learn how to go about having the man declared dead or deemed to have died.
"It's...very difficult for her."
"I can imagine."
"...She loved him very much, of course. And...hasn't really faced up to it, hasn't ...begun to mourn, yet. She'll need time."

After a pause, Hugh nicked his head to the side with an in-drawn breath,
"My goodness, you don't make things easy for yourself, do you? A Russian émigrée, one of the deposed nobility, with a missing husband from the old Imperial Army? An enemy of the Bolshevik regime."
Reid eyed him worriedly,
"...You've heard of these labour camps they've set up all over the country?"
"The 'Gulag' camps, yes. It's Elsa's belief that, if he wasn't killed on the battlefield, or assassinated off the field, and if he hasn't escaped across the border, then he would have been sent to one of these camps. She tells me they're officially for 'correction' and 're-education' of prisoners, but in reality it's forced labour until death."
"What brutality. But, seven years... It's very unlikely he's alive, isn't it? ...Is she going to make application to the court for a declaration of death?"
"Well, it's complicated. ...It's unclear whether a British Court can make such a declaration on a person who was never an immigrant nor a citizen."
"I see. But generally seven years is the term for presumption of death."
"Yes. ...For matrimonial causes...em," Foyle cleared his throat, and carefully ignored Reid's inquiring eyebrow by moving things about on his desk, "...the court can grant leave for an applicant to swear that a person is dead. But, em, Elsa has told me...she would find that very difficult - almost like pronouncing a death sentence herself."
"So..., you're being very patient and waiting for her to come around to it...?"
"That's about the size of it." He gave a frustrated sigh. "Her uncle, Mr. Denikin, is, em, in our confidence, but, er, none of the others in the local Russian community know about...us. They might not approve."
"I see. And, er, Elsa has no other family, no children?"
"No children. Mmm, cousins, settled in the Balkans and Turkey. No one of his family survived, apparently. They have no one on the Continent who could make direct inquiries, it seems. Diplomatic channels have been unsuccessful."

"Well..., Christopher," Reid said with an undisguised note of doubt, "I certainly wish you both every happiness..." He stood and offered his hand, and Foyle rose and shook hands across his desk.
"Let me know if there's anything I can do to help. Anything at all."
"I will. And ...thanks, Hugh. It's a bit of a relief to share it, actually." He murmured, scratching the side of his head.
"I should think so. Em..., may I let Elaine know...?"
"Wull, I know you discuss everything with her, Hugh, so, ...yes."

As summer flowered into full bloom, their love grew, and both felt it was a settled thing that they would marry. It had not been easy meeting secretly in Hastings, and they had travelled as far as Brighton, Crawley and Dover simply to have dinner together, and had overnighted in London twice, when Andrew had invitations to friends'. Foyle had not had her to his house, for fear of neighbours questioning his son about her or gossiping in his hearing. Their least difficult, most enjoyable trysts were after hours at the café, and upstairs, when Elsa's Uncle Pavel Denikin was away with his compatriots.

One such evening, as they sat together on the settee, Elsa wished to show him a photo album. The plainness of the cover belied the surprising contents.
"When we left home, ...left Saint Petersburg, I had to take the photographs from their frames and hide them inside the pages of a few books. It wasn't until we got to Paris that I had time at least to put them into a proper album. ...You will see, Chreestopher, that we led quite a different life from how we live now."

In shirtsleeves, loosened tie and open collar, he rested his arm along the back of the sofa, leaning towards her with interested curiosity as she turned the pages. The images showed various courtly people holding elegant, refined or stiff formal poses in very grand, stately rooms, or at leisure outdoors in sporting clothes amidst gracious gardens and on fine lawns. Elsa pointed out a family portrait group that included her own parents, an august grandmother in widow's black, three brothers in uniform - the youngest in a sailor suit - and herself as a very young girl in nineteenth-century white lace.

She continued turning over the pages, naming aunts and uncles only by their Christian names, pointing out Pavel Denikin, her mother's elder brother, as a middle-aged man in the uniform of the Imperial Russian Army, various cousins, and then herself again as a child, and as a beautiful young woman of wealth and privilege.

"...Where are your parents and your brothers now, Elsa?"
"My grandmother and my parents passed away at home before the Great War. My brothers - Oleg, Gabriel and George - died at the hands of the Bolsheviks in the Revolution."
Foyle knitted his brows in concerned sympathy.

Then she turned a page to reveal a photograph taken at her wedding to Sergei Konstantin, and Foyle was rather taken aback. The regal finery of her dress, accented with ornate jewels, tiara and sash, and the ensigns, emblems and regalia across the man's military tunic, all revealed the rarefied high level of pre-revolutionary Imperial society at which she had lived. Christopher bit his lower lip, feeling a little daunted now, sitting next to her so casually,
"You, em, had a title, then...?"
"My father was a Grand Duke, so I was called... Princess. Sergei is - was - a second cousin of the Tsar. When Sergei married me, I became the Countess Elsa Alexandrovna Konstantinova."

He chewed his lip a little more worriedly. His late wife, Rosalind, had been a daughter of landed gentry, his Great War love, Caroline, had been of a very good family and married a Knight of the Realm, even his first love, Elizabeth, had been 'above his station.' But a Countess? A Princess? Foyle was all too aware he was merely the son of a police sergeant.
Elsa lifted her chin,
"Do not think differently of me, Chreestopher. The jewels - those diamonds, rubies, pearls, ...got us safely away, and allowed us to survive and to live for more than a decade. That was their true value in those extraordinary and difficult years - as a passport." She placed her hand on his, "They are all gone, that life is gone, and now I am simply... Elsa."

She closed the album, set it aside on a low table, and sat back to lay her head on his shoulder with a sigh. He brought his arm down around her and drew her closer, yet his brow was furrowed in doubt. His own house was comfortable, but it was not remotely like a palace. Then again, he allowed, eyes wandering over the small sitting room, neither was this flat above the coffee shop.

Elsa raised her head to kiss him on the neck under his ear, saying quietly,
"I would very much like you to make love to me now, Chreestopher. I thought you should know my history, but I no longer wish to be sad, and... I do not wish you to be sad for me."
He considered his feelings on the matter and decided that, while he was not overly saddened by her loss of excessive societal privilege and wealth, he certainly did sympathize with her loss of family, friends and personal safety.
Pressing his lips to her forehead, he said gently,
"Then... let's do our best to make each other happy."

He drew her up onto her feet and led the way to the bedroom. They stopped on the hearth rug to stand face to face. Fixing his eyes on hers, Christopher began removing his clothes. Waistcoat, necktie, shirt, wristwatch all landed on the now familiar nearby chair. Elsa watched him, curious and a little amused, as he hadn't touched her since letting go of her hand.
He gave her a look and a nod to suggest that she also undress. Her blouse, skirt and underthings soon joined his trousers, socks and shorts, and they stood naked before each other.
He took up her hand and placed it over his heart,
"Well, what are... any of us, after all, my love, but 'poor bare, forked animals'?"

She smiled, then laughed softly,
"You are quite right. We are all the same under our clothes. It is the furnishings of our minds and hearts that matter." She came into his arms, kissed his lips tenderly and looked into his eyes,
"Chreestopher, I should like to find a home in your heart. I have made you one in mine..."
His lower lip trembled a little as he leaned in to kiss her reverently, whispering,
"Yyou would... do me a great honour, My Lady-"
She put a finger over his lips, shaking her head,
"Never again shall I hear that address. I am - I would like to be - your Elsa."
Eyes shining, Christopher beamed an inverted smile before embracing her closely, as she continued,
"I am ready to make a declaration to the court." She spoke softly by his ear, "I will make myself a free woman...for you, my darling."
He drew back to stroke her cheek adoringly, wordlessly, and then claimed her with a devouring kiss.

It was a bright warm day in late July, and Foyle was entirely free of work demands and family responsibilities - Andrew was spending part of his school holidays with his aunt and uncle on their sailing boat. Today he had arranged to meet Elsa here at the seafront, and later that afternoon would bring her to his home for the first time. When Andrew returned he would introduce his son to her, explain to him that they were 'stepping out,' and, after some weeks to allow them to get to know each other, he and Elsa would announce their intention to marry.
With regard to her husband, Elsa had told him she had talked everything over with Uncle Pavel, who had been wonderfully understanding, and suggested that making application to the court would show respect for Sergei's memory, to have his death recorded in an official way. Her uncle had offered to be their ambassador to the community of émigrés, when the time came for their announcement. He had even, one afternoon in the café, goodnaturedly warned Christopher to prepare himself for the imbibing of a great deal of vodka.

Walking along East Parade in his light summer suit and trilby, Christopher enjoyed the feel of the sun on his face and the breeze from the sea, and felt a sense of gratitude for how happy, how blessed he was to have found another love. He soon spotted Elsa, and even from quite some distance, they approached each other smiling in glad anticipation of spending this day together. As they drew closer, quickening their pace, eyes only for each other, their smiles widened, and when Christopher playfully showed the posy of flowers he carried in his hand, Elsa laughed in delight.

At the sound of her musical laughter a man whom neither of them had noticed - a tall, thin, bearded, elderly man, hatless, in a worn greatcoat, leaning on a cane, one hand resting on a stanchion of the railing for support - turned towards her, his back to Foyle, and spoke to her. Elsa's eyes shifted to the gaunt figure, and she faltered and came to a sudden stop. Under the bright summer sun, Foyle saw her face blanch and her happy expression transform into one of shock, disbelief, and something between dismay and awe.

He halted and watched in utter despondency as the scene played out.
Before Elsa could sink down into a faint, the gentleman reached her with surprising speed and strength, supporting her in his arms. Foyle instantly deduced who it must be, and felt all his hopes and his delight draining from him into the earth.
He saw their looks of poignant recognition and reconciliation, heard the rhythms of their agonised voices in their shared language, watched them clutch onto each other desperately.
In the grip of that fierce embrace, Elsa faced him, sent him a long look of anguish, her eyes dark and streaming with tears of pain and joy.

Christopher removed his hat and held it over his heart in a gesture of love and farewell.
He bowed his head, then turned and quickly walked away. From a distance he dared to look back, to watch his love go, led home weak with shock and held up by her husband's arm around her waist. He stood thinking, breathing hard from the pain, trying to console his breaking heart by imagining her joy equalling the overwhelming joy he would feel if he were to meet his Rosalind walking towards him.

But late that night, alone at home in the sitting room, surrounded by the half-dozen fragrant, colourful flower arrangements he had bought to welcome her, rather worse for drink and too disheartened and exhausted to take himself to bed, it occurred to Foyle that if he had only waited a few seconds more, until she was safely in his arms, before presenting that foolish little bouquet of flowers, the scene might well have been reversed: Sergei Konstantin might have been the one to walk away, to have given her up at that moment, seeing her happiness with another, younger, man.
And that he found hard not to blame himself for.

Foyle had phoned in to the Station on the Monday morning and announced he would take a few days leave from work. He knew he needed time to recover from the sudden loss of all his dreams for a future with his new love. When Sergeant Rivers had reported his absence to the Chief, and later confidentially informed Inspector Reid that the detective had not sounded well, Reid had shown up at Steep Lane that very evening.
He found his friend in what could only be described as a 'bad state.' Well, by Foyle standards, at least. Unshaven, unwashed, in rumpled shirt and trousers he'd undoubtedly slept in, and maintaining a mildly numbing intoxication with whisky. He wasn't drunk.
Reid listened to his reasonably coherent tale of woe with genuine pain and sympathy. He even talked him out of the anguish of self-blame by suggesting 'the old Boyar' would undoubtedly have been armed and, had it gone the other way, might very well have shot the pair of them dead right there on the East Parade.
Christopher found this oddly comforting, and decided he didn't wish to die after all.

On the morning Foyle returned to work, Mr. Denikin met him outside the Station, serious and contrite over the turn of events. He begged Foyle to agree to a rendezvous, to allow Elsa to say a proper farewell to him, so that she might resume her marriage without the memory of that tragic parting as their final moment together.
"She loves you deeply, Mr. Foyle. This is tearing her apart, and she must hide it all from Sergei, who believes there has been no other man in all these seven years. And there almost was...no other man. If her husband had chosen to reappear only three months sooner...she would have been a model Penelope to his Odysseus."
The older man put his hand on Foyle's shoulder,
"This will be difficult for you, Sir. But you have conducted yourself throughout as a gentleman of the first water, and I beg you to grant the Countess this last request before she and her husband leave for the Continent."
At that news Foyle's head dropped with fresh dismay - he would never see her again! - then he nodded his agreement to Mr. Denikin.

The meeting was arranged for the following afternoon, up at the Castle ruins. It was another glorious summer day, but the wind was cold enough to drive sightseers off the hill and down into the Old Town. Elsa was there first. Pavel Denikin waited with his back to them at a discreet distance. Approaching cautiously, Foyle watched her, standing among the crumbling stone walls. She was outwardly composed and somehow more regal looking, unattainable now, in a long silk cloak, her hair gathered and arranged neatly on the back of her head, waiting with hands clasped before her. But when she turned and saw him, her composure slipped, her eyes filling with tears.
He came to stand near her, hands gripped at his back, blinking at his own tears.
"Chreestopher, will you forgive me...?"
He shook his head,
"Nnothing to forgive, Elsa. Mmy fault. I presumed to intrude into your life..."
"Never." She countered, glossy tendrils of hair tugged out by the breeze and flowing behind her, "Never could it be called presumption. Never could it be called intrusion. You have given me a precious gift - the gift of unfettered love, free from obligation to old duty, old dynasties. You have shown me how other people love."
Her tears flowed down, and he bowed his head to ask quietly,
"You're leaving Hastings...?"
She took in a deep breath to steady her voice,
"Yes. Uncle Pavel will stay here, with our friends - and make the coffee." She smiled very briefly through her tears, then continued, "Sergei...wishes to accept the invitation to live with his cousin, the Duke, in his castle in Bavaria."
Foyle frowned in concern, saying softly,
"Germany...doesn't seem a safe haven, these days..."
"I agree. Sergei has made the decision. He does not expect to return to a wife with her own opinions, and I do not wish to oppose him in anything. He has...endured so much...suffered greatly." She lifted her head resolutely, "We leave in three days."
He slowly raised his eyes to hers, and with some effort of composure, said,
"...Then I wish you godspeed and a...safe...and happy life, Elsa."
He held out his hand, and she unclasped hers to take it, with a trembling smile.
When he brought her fingers up to his lips, she took a step towards him, and impulsively reached out to caress the curls behind his ear. His eyes closed and a tear slid down his cheek.
She whispered,
"Chreestopher. I will never forget you. I will treasure the memory of our love. I hope very much...you will, too."

Some four months later, when the pain was manageable, and he was up to it, Foyle began visiting the Russian café to pay his respects to Pavel Denikin and to hear any news of the Countess.
One day Elsa's uncle told him,
"The Count and the Duke, it seems, do not see eye to eye over the present political climate in Germany. Sergei foresees the danger of such...immoderateness, while the Duke finds it thrilling. ...It may be that they will not remain in Germany much longer."

"Well, yes, I travelled to Cologne recently. It was... very worrying to see firsthand the, er, confidence... of the people in their leader."
"You fought the Germans in the Great War?"
"I did. It seems they have entirely regained the swagger they displayed twenty years ago."

Denikin nodded and laughed quietly, then mentioned,
"Elsa has written to His Majesty, King Leopold, to enquire if they might live in Brussels. But Sergei has not yet agreed to go there."

Foyle gave a melancholy half-smile,
"...There's a word for a man who won't be managed, you know."
"What is it, Chreestopher?"
He arched an eyebrow,
"...Bolshie."
Denikin stared at him a moment, then his eyes grew round and bright, and he burst into hearty delighted laughter, drawing stares from the handful of shabby, genteel émigrés who sat nursing their coffees.
"I will write to Elsa and let her know this word. She always wishes to improve her English."

The End.

Post Script
I imagine Elsa and Sergei must have left Germany in 1938-39 and returned to England. Sergei, being older and worn out from his imprisonment, would have passed away during the War, leaving Elsa in mourning for some years. With the pressures of Home Front police work weighing upon him, worry about Andrew in the RAF, and the distraction of his 'invaluable' young MTC driver, Foyle did not renew the love affair, but each was able to meet the other as a friend.

I was also toying with the idea of introducing another unacknowledged son - Elsa was not so far into menopause as she'd imagined! The late baby would be seen as a miracle and a reward for Sergei's survival, an heir to carry on the Konstantin name. And yet the child would be the first of his line to have curly hair.
But that would really complicate things postwar! Not only would the Foyle family dining table be a bit crowded, but it might stretch Sam's tolerance of his past secret love affairs just a bit too far. ;oD

P.P.S. Having watched the episode again (Nov. 30), I've noticed that Foyle and Elsa mention that the coffee house was closed during the War and the Russians, along with all other 'aliens,' removed from Hastings. So in 1945 she has only recently reopened, and perhaps in a different location. If there is any coolness between them in TRH, I would imagine it is because in 1939 Elsa had asked Foyle to intervene on their behalf, but there was nothing he could legally do to have her, Sergei, Uncle Pavel, or any of their friends, exempted from the internment order.