Sam Stewart had had three proposals by the end of the war, well, four if she counted the one from Jimmy Nicholson, Inspector Foyle's god-daughter's son (what a tangle that was!); sadly, Jimmy's was the most romantic of the lot as he'd included "more'n half" his sweet ration in his offer and noted she made a "first-rate look-out even if your hair is awfully bright in the sunshine." She'd given up on any proper love-making more grudgingly than the sacrifice of new stockings or a truly satisfying pudding; she couldn't see how the lack of romance helped the war effort and it certainly didn't help her! She couldn't be sure why the ars amatoria, as Uncle Aubrey might say, were so thin on the ground as none of the other girls she knew seemed to suffer the lack, especially from the American soldiers who were equally free with chocolate, all sorts of tinned food and even cosmetics or bottles of scent. Joe had been a dear, but the most she'd gotten from him in the sweet-nothings department was that she was swell-looking, a real peach, and that he thought she'd make a mighty fine wife. It hadn't been… transporting. She knew actions were supposed to speak louder than words and Joe had shown he was loyal and devoted as well as lively, but she was unwilling to give up on words altogether.
For all that rakish, dark-eyed Andrew Foyle was a poet, she'd seen little evidence that he was capable or willing to turn his flights of fancy towards a girl he might fancy, namely, Sam herself. He hadn't shared much of his writing with her but what he had was focused on the war, the isolation of flight, his bitter, guilty grief over losing his comrades. He was generally quick to avoid talking about his poetry and as Sam hardly knew what to say when he'd recited it to her ("jolly good" had sprung to her lips but she gulped it back, sure that was not what was wanted), she hadn't minded terribly except that there'd been not even one paltry couplet addressed "To Samantha, from far-off Alba." He didn't even copy out poems he liked for her to read and his letters from Scotland had been subdued and flat, barely requiring censoring. There hadn't seemed to be a way to bridge that anguished afternoon at her flat when he'd come to her in such distress and everything that came after, Andrew hustled off to distant Debden without even a by-your-leave, except that he was following orders again, so the leave was there, just not from her. It had been such a great relief than she hadn't taken offense at his departing request she look after his father. If she'd ever hoped to see "Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind," in his cramped handwriting, she learned quickly enough that nothing in that vein would be forthcoming. Andrew's half-hearted proposal tossed off in the auto months and months after he'd thrown her over via post was easy enough to decline though she did feel it was such bad form that she'd not even wanted to speak of it; at least Joe had spent weeks in keenly hot pursuit and had dropped to his knee, eager to buy her the biggest ring, "a real knock-out," if only she'd let him.
It must be something about her—she'd overheard Sergeant Milner calling his fiancée Edie "a Christmas angel" when she'd met him at the front door of the police station after work. For all that Miss Ashford had a sprig of holly pinned to her nurse's cape, Sam thought calling her an "angel" could only be the remark of a man in love and certainly she'd caught the answering gleam in Edith Ashford's eye when Milner said it. Brookie had had a new girl every week it seemed, but when Sam came across him at a dance-hall, he called each one "luv" or "pet" and casually commented on some feminine aspect in an entirely complimentary fashion, even if he was a bit more direct and, well, cheeky than Sam would have cared for personally. Inspector Foyle might as well have been a monk (which was much more plausible that her own earlier aspirations to a convent life), but she suspected that when he'd been a younger man, it had been no great effort for him to enchant whatever lady he pursued with some astute and graceful declaration in that voice he had, though she could only imagine the look he would have given her if she somehow tried to turn the conversation in the Wolesley to a trip down Memory Lane.
And now Adam's proposal was more of the same. She must love him for she'd hadn't felt an ounce of hesitation in telling him yes, but she couldn't help grumbling to herself afterward in her room. All those soulful glances he'd given her and the beginnings of speeches she'd hastily cut off—well, it was chickens home to roost and perhaps she simply was a woman men didn't get soppy about. There were worse things. She couldn't quite remember what those worse things would be on the evening of her engagement, but she was sure that she'd recall by the morning's unforgiving light when perhaps the lack of any flowery endearments would make writing the letter home to the vicarage easier, the registry wedding more fitting for practical Sam and no-nonsense Adam, who had the longest eyelashes she'd ever seen, a trick of nature designed to throw her off, she couldn't help thinking.
That idea, something about having a marriage like a good, solid, Saxon yeoman, was how she'd consoled herself through the dinner, still more swede than sausage and the sausage itself not worth thinking about closely, and then as they worked to clean it all up; engagement or no, there was still a boarding house to run. So, when Adam turned to her and said,
"Sam, leave the dishes. I want to take you out dancing tonight," she counted that as being as close to Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristan and Isolde as she was going to get. Given the outcomes of those relationships, Sam considered she might be better off.
She flew to her room and tried to put together a festive look, ruing once again the lack of lipstick, and fussing with the collar of her dark blue dress, wishing for Mummy's gold locket or Aunt Pamela's paste brooch in the shape of a floppy bow that added a good deal of cheer to any frock. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks for a little color as she hadn't any beetroot. Adam eyed her appreciatively notwithstanding the poor showing her wardrobe made, but all he said was "let's be off, then." She shook her head a little and decided she needed to make the most of his hand holding hers, the warm sense of him next to her walking through the streets to the dance-hall, the shadows the light dropped around them from the shaded chandelier better than black-out's cozy darkness.
Adam was a good dancer and she sighed with pleasure at how confidently he held her, a commanding hand at the small of her back. That was what kept her moving when he started singing along with the band, his cheek against her temple; the sound of his voice, an ordinary, pleasant baritone, had become everything star-spangled and moonlit, summer roses, heady, heavenly,
"The moon that lingered over London town,/ Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown./ How could he know we two were so in love? /The whole darn world seemed upside down/ The streets of town were paved with stars;/ It was such a romantic affair…"
Sam had a wonderful, swoony feeling and at the same time, felt like she crackled with electricity from her fingertips to the ends of her hair, even artfully coiled and curled into a chignon instead of that dreadfully dull Victory roll. She clung closer to Adam and he noticed, of course he did, for he kept singing, but when he reached "I still remember how you smiled" he broke off and said "Sam, darling, my darling Sam" in a lower register than she'd ever heard from him, somehow beseeching and possessive all at once. She'd managed to string together "Oh, yes, Adam," while it occurred to her she'd finally gotten what she wanted, the most properly romantic night she could imagine and there was no reason she couldn't have it again. There'd be no rationing for love and she would have told Adam so, but that was when he kissed her, so she'd have to wait and most gladly.