L'Aimant - Chap 16 (M)

Summary:

(M-rated version of Chapter 16 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.

The morning following the wedding, the Foyles and the Stewarts awaken at The Royal Victoria, Hastings.

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".

…

After the death of his wife, Carole Lombard, in 1942, Clark Gable romanced a starlet called Virginia Grey for several years, before re-marrying in 1949. He did not marry Miss Grey.

…

Thanks to my lovely beta dancesabove for tweaking this, and for educating me about Foyle's in-canon relationship with 'The Wizard of Oz'!

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

Needing no further invitation, Iain Stewart bent to loosen his shoelaces and kicked off his shoes. Then he climbed onto the bed next to Geraldine, closed his eyes and lowered his head onto her shoulder, feeling blindly for her hand.

"No sudden moves," he reassured her, pressing a soft smile into her terry robe.

"Nothing sudden," she answered, sinking comfortably into slumber. "For an hour or so, at least."

"An hour. Or so."

Iain yawned, relaxing against his wife. As he often did before drifting off to sleep, he prayed.

Dear Father,

Grant Samantha happiness and peace in her married life, as I have been fortunate to enjoy in mine.

Protect her growing child and give Christopher the gift of strength

—He hesitated in his prayer—

the gift of energy, Lord, to love and support her in the months and years to come, through married life and motherhood, and—if you see fit to spare him long enough—through menopause.

Amen.

Chapter 16

Sunday, 17th December 1944

Samantha Foyle was enjoying a pleasant dream from the luxurious comfort of her hotel bed. She was sitting in the middle of a field of waving wheat, dotted with the bluest cornflowers…

A checked tablecloth lay spread between Samantha and her handsome companion. Mr Gable was reclining on one elbow—the dapper image of his suave screen-icon-self: beige linen jacket and spotted maroon cravat; hair pomaded smoothly into shape, a rogue lock falling rakishly across his forehead…

Cake-crumbs and cherry-stones—the remnants of a picnic—were strewn across the cloth. Proudly upright in the middle of the whole arrangement stood a large, Champagne-corked bottle labelled "Dandelion Pop".

Gable's eyes devoured Samantha. Grinning cheekily, he beckoned her across the tablecloth to join him. "C'mere, Kid. Got a great surprise for ya."

Sam turned a small, unruffled smile on her companion. "I'm not at all sure that I like your surprises, Mr Gable. You're courting Miss Virginia Grey, from what I hear." She tossed her head and arched her back, planting her hands flat on the ground behind her. Her blonde curls tumbled loosely down her back as she lifted her face to catch the sun's rays.

"Aw, Honey, don't be hard on me," coaxed Gable, reproaching her with 'hurt pup' eyebrows. "Virginia and me?—that's goin' nowhere. And ain't it just a lovely day? We could fool around a little—who's gonna know?"

Sam knelt up and reached out for the bottle. "Christopher would know, because I'd have to tell him. You can have a glass of pop instead," she told him firmly, and began to fiddle with the cork. "You know," she admonished sternly, "it's simply not polite to waltz across the ocean and expect to have your pick. We've got our own lives to lead over here."

Gable threw back his head and laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. "Gee, but you're a dippy dame! I love your British accent. And I'm gonna kiss the face right off ya!"

"No, you jolly well aren't!" Sam struggled to extract the cork sunk deep into the neck of the bottle. "It's pop for you—or nothing."

Gable's grin turned devilish, and he wagged his finger playfully. "I wouldn't pop that cork if I were you, Sister. You'll never get the genie back into the bottle." Slowly he began to crawl on hands and knees across the cloth, ignoring the detritus from the picnic. His expression spelled 'comin' to get ya'.

Still struggling with the stubborn cork, Sam scolded in her best strict schoolmistress tone: "You're going to get your trousers very messy, Mr Gable."

"Uncommonly decent of you to care, but trousers are the least of my concerns." The voice which now dismissed her warning wasn't Gable's. It was calm, and clipped, and smooth as golden syrup. The voice was unmistakeably Christopher's.

Sam's new beau took possession of the bottle. "Now, what about my kiss?"

She felt her breath catch. "So it's really you?" she whispered breathily.

Eyes twinkling, Christopher leant across in silence to collect his prize, his fingers reaching round to dive into her hair. The cork popped. She was swooning from the contact of his lips, and spiralling away to…

Wakefulness. Sam's eyelids flickered open. Christopher was lying facing her in their enormous hotel bed. He was still asleep, his face serene, lips slightly parted, covers pulled up round his shoulders. His pyjamas, of sturdy, striped flannel—normally a successful deterrent to intruders—were gaping open at the chest, a leftover from the way they'd finished up the night before.

Sam drank in the sight of her husband with deepening pleasure: ineffably angelic as he slept, the firm line of his lips turning slightly upwards at one end; the satisfying curve of the faint creases leading down from his nose and past the corners of his lips; long eyelashes resting softly on his cheeks. Reason told her she should let him sleep, but her body drove her to disturb him. Her left hand snaked underneath his pyjama jacket, stroking the warm flesh of his flank.

Christopher's eyes peeled open slowly. "Mmm... Samantha?"

"Happy Sunday, Darling Husband," Sam purred, insinuating herself closer.

He blinked at her. "Seem to remember something yesterday along those lines." A yawn escaped him as he stretched his legs beneath the covers. "So we're still married then? At any rate, your left hand seems well kitted-out with rings, and one of them"—he smirked, shifting minutely—"is definitely poking me in the ribs."

Sam withdrew her hand as if she had been burned. Her large engagement ring had somehow worked its way around her finger in the night so that the stone was pointing inwards from her palm. "Oh, Darling—did I hurt you?" she fretted.

"Nope." Christopher grinned mischievously and gathered her hand back to his chest. "But this—he turned the stone to face the proper way and squinted down at it—"could prove to be a fearsome weapon… in the wrong situation."

"I should take it off…" offered Sam apologetically.

"No, leave it on." He kissed her fingers. "Just be careful what you're up to." He yawned again. "What time is it?"

"Um, seven, I think." Sam's tone brightened: "Actually, you can look for yourself—I have a surprise for you!" She sat up, a vision in her ivory satin nightie—though that was not the actual surprise—and turned to fumble for the light. Reaching inside the bedside drawer she drew out a small leather-covered box. "This is for you, my darling." She placed the box in Christopher's hand.

Foyle stroked his thumb along his young wife's wrist. "Sam, you needn't have…" he began.

"Well, you didn't want to wear a wedding ring, and so I thought… this…" Sam's voice trailed off. She was half-nervous that he wouldn't like her present.

Foyle lifted the lid: inside the silk-lined box sat a silver half-hunter pocket watch, engraved with elaborate swirls, and mounted on a double-Albert chain. Even the most cursory inspection revealed the watch to be a splendid timepiece, and it told him, without his having to flip open the outer case, that the time was ten past seven.

Foyle lifted the watch from its box and laid it on the palm of his left hand. "Sweetheart, this is…magnificent. Thank you, Sam." He worked quietly at the inside of his lower lip. "I shall keep it with me always," he told her softly.

"And you'll think of me whenever you check the time," Sam urged, a little over-eagerly, adding, with a tinge of sadness, "no matter who's driving you…" She cast her eyes down.

"Sam—" Christopher squeezed her hand kindly, "I don't need a pocket watch to think of you. You're with me every second." He stroked her fingers with his thumb and drew her body across his, placing his present carefully on the cabinet his own side of the bed.

"This"—he inclined his head towards the watch—"and these"—he fingered the rings on her left hand—"are things. Just tokens—nice to have, we like to give them, but they make no difference to what we are to one another. Nothing—no-one—will distract me from that simple fact—or displace you. Ever." He hugged her and pressed his lips into her hair as if to reinforce his words. "Work… is just work. Can you even begin to understand the difference you've made to me?"—he struggled for the best way to explain— "You've brought a part of me I'd given up on back to life. You've added… colour."

Sam beamed up at him. "When you say that, it makes me think of 'The Wizard of Oz'!"

"Hmm?" Foyle stretched his eyes, intrigued at first by the analogy. Then he found himself accepting it. "It may… surprise you to know I've seen that film," he told her. Taking note of Sam's raised eyebrows, he continued, "Don't you remember? When my goddaughter Lydia's son was staying with me, you told me 'Oz' was playing at The Ruby, and hinted I should take the boy to see it. So, naturally, I did just that." When could I ever resist your good sense? he thought. "Total-nonsense plot, of course, but young James was entranced. It took his mind off things for a short while."

Foyle's mind drifted back to the spring of 1943, sitting in The Ruby with young James's sticky hand clutching his own. Little did I know, he thought, that eighteen months later, I'd be sitting in the same auditorium with my future wife, and—who knows?—in the next few years, I may even be taking my own child there for (what the devil do they watch these days?) Walt Disney's 'Jumbo', or something equally appalling.

Foyle hauled himself back from his reverie, and spoke into Sam's hair. "That shift from sepia to Technicolor when they land in Oz still strikes me as a clever piece of cinema... And—yes—you've had the same vibrant effect on me."

"All yellow bricks and ruby slippers, am I?" chuckled Sam.

Christopher gave her one of the adoring smiles that always left her hugely pleased to be on the receiving end. "Sam, if my image of you even remotely resembled Dorothy, I would have tied a stout brown label to your ribboned plaits and evacuated you to Lyminster years ago."

"Instead of which…?" she pressed.

"Mmm. Hang on… Ah, now—here's a label." Christopher delved teasingly under her arm. "It says: 'Samantha Stewart—Age: Over 21. Destination: Marriage to a Very Lucky Man."

Sam bit her lip and looked up at him. "Christopher, you—you aren't… ashamed of me for last night?"

Foyle's brows knitted. "Why in heaven's name would I be 'ashamed'?"

"I was very…" Sam turned into his shoulder and whispered, "I was very loud."

Amusement settled on his lips. "Since I put you in that situation, I hardly think I'm one to point a finger. Delight, not shame, would be my memory of the occasion."

Samantha sighed contentedly and closed her eyes, reliving the events of the night before…

Christopher approached the bed, an ice-bag brandished in each hand.

"These should go a long way to relieving the soreness," he said. "Just lie back and open up your robe."

"And how come you're the expert?" Sam asked testily. Every bit of her seemed suddenly uncomfortable, and she was out of sorts.

Her husband raised one eyebrow, waiting for her common sense to triumph over crossness.

It took a moment till the penny dropped. "Oh. I see," she offered grudgingly. "You know the drill from… um… from Rosalind's time with Andrew?"

Christopher inclined his head. "Though I have to say, cold compresses were all we used. Rosalind didn't choose to spend nine hours solid in an irritating bosom-harness of the kind you've worn today."

Confronted with such evidence of Rosalind's inarguable good sense, Samantha's temper rose. "So now I'm silly for wanting to look nice for you on our wedding day?" Beneath her animus ran a certain seam of guilt—had she not, after all, complained about the strictures of glamour to her mother earlier? Which made it all the more unfair to play that card against Christopher? If truth be known, she was actually angry at herself, but her husband had obligingly stepped into the role of scapegoat. And, frankly, being placed in competition with the sainted Rosalind was not about to make Sam any sweeter.

Christopher took a breath and dug deep for the diplomacy skills that had eluded him a moment earlier. "No, not in the least silly. Please. Sam. I appreciate the trouble you took to make me proud. Now all I want is to help make you comfortable again. It really is the least that I can do." He stood, eyes wide, his mouth set in a patient line, inviting reason. Calmly, he held the two ice-bags by their necks, and waited to be forgiven for being right.

"I don't see—" Sam began, her petulance half-hearted now.

"Sam." His quiet patience chipped away at her annoyance.

She sighed and folded. "Well, if you really think it might help…"

"Convinced it will. No more than half a minute to start with—see how it feels. If it's uncomfortable, we'll use a towel to pad the, um, the area."

"All right. I'm ready." Sam drew back her bathrobe and closed her eyes to receive the descending ice-bags. As they landed softly, an initial shiver took her. Opening her eyes a tiny crack, she saw Christopher gazing down at her with an expression of intense concentration. After half a minute, he removed the ice, as they'd agreed.

"Not too bad," she conceded. "Things feel a little numb." From her position lying on the bed, Sam tucked her chin into her neck and surveyed the results of the exercise. The soreness had already subsided somewhat, due to the numbing cold, but both her nipples had puckered into darkened buds atop the mounds of creamy flesh. She squirmed a little, gauging how she rated the effect.

"More?" Christopher's eyes were steady on hers.

"Mmm. Why not?" She reclined again, and settled into position.

Back came the ice-bags—this time, less of a shiver on contact. Instead Sam was surprised by a sharp report of excitement shooting towards her core. She bit her lip, avoiding Christopher's eyes, and all too soon the time came for the ice-bags to be lifted once again.

"Sam? It hurts?" his concerned tone reached her as if from a distance, through the noise of rushing blood inside her ears.

Sam shook her head, continuing to bite her lip.

"Again?"

She nodded mutely, this time turning to meet his gaze. Christopher saw at once that her eyes had darkened beyond her usual deep brown. He lowered the ice-bags once again, and reached to stroke her cheek. "You're starting to like this, aren't you?"

Sam closed her eyes and shivered. On this occasion, it was not the ice. When they opened again, her eyes bore a beseeching look. Christopher calmly removed the ice-bags and returned them to the tray.

"Better?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "Better… and worse." She drew his hand to her. It was chilly from the ice. "I so want you to make love to me," she breathed.

Christopher settled on the bed beside her, pushing the curls back from her temples. "I'm out of the doghouse, then?" He gave her the scolded puppy eyebrows.

"Don't…" she pleaded, and instantly he dropped the teasing tone.

"If it gets to be too much, you'll tell me and I'll stop," he told her tenderly, sliding his hand beneath her upper body, gathering her against him. "You're a lovely armful, Mrs Foyle," he crooned, planting a slow trail of kisses from neck to nipple on her languid form. "How's this feel? Comfortable?" He lingered, teasing at one puckered, darkened areola with his lips.

"Mmm. Lovely. More please."

"The flesh is still quite cold. You feel it, though?" he cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I do. It's quite intense, but the numbness from the ice has made it quaintly bearable—I don't want you to stop."

"Then rest assured, I won't." Christopher's mouth returned to questing round Samantha's nipple, transmitting shocks to parts of her she didn't dare acknowledge. And the more he worried at the sensitive tissue, the more intense those shocks became.

With half an eye, he measured Sam's reactions—every gasp and mewl that brought her closer to the pleasure she was chasing. At the outset, Christopher followed her progress with a certain observational detachment, but as moments passed, such emotional distance became impossible to maintain, for Sam's responsiveness was engaging directly with his own anatomy. He bent to his task with increasing enthusiasm, taking one engorged nipple then the other in between his lips, and teasing, gently at first, then, with Sam's urgent encouragement, more sharply, nibbling lightly at the buds of her breasts. Samantha's vocal responses grew much louder as her excitement climbed, and her body, enfolded firmly in his arms, was growing harder to control with all the frantic bucks and spasms that accompanied her cries of ecstasy.

"Shush, Darling, shush!" he told her softly, but Sam was powerless to stifle the vocal evidence of her enjoyment, building rapidly to helpless whoops of consummation. Throughout it all, he still maintained the stimulation, unable to deny her this (or indeed, any) outlet for her pleasure.

Inevitably Christopher's own excitement rose beyond control. But with his hands and mouth so busy on Samantha, rendering her totally insensible to any need outside her own, he had to content himself with gentle pressure up against her hip and screwing up his eyes in effort to contain his arousal. Finally helpless to restrain his body any longer, he felt himself contract in spasm, and a warm stream shot up then trickled down his midriff as his own release erupted in defiance of his efforts to hold back. The only sound to issue from his lips was a single sob of torment against Sam's tautened nipple, anchored underneath his mouth.

Samantha's climax shook the bed vicariously through her husband's lap—the sturdy mattress shuddered with the power of it beneath them both. Fearing that her extravagant cries risked drawing unwanted assistance to the room from staff or fellow guests, Christopher tore his mouth from her breast and planted it hard over hers, stemming the sounds of unrestrained delight escaping there.

Neither one of them could have left the hotel room that night to save their lives. Both were in a state of some exhaustion from the pressures of the day, to say nothing of their passionate encounter. Samantha, well aware of the clamour she had made, thought she'd rather die than risk being spotted emerging from their room by neighbours. Therefore, Christopher's next call to room service was not for more ice, but to order them an evening meal, to be delivered to their room.

They fed each other quietly on the bed, embracing between mouthfuls, then changed into their night things, and fell into an early stupor around nine.

Back from the heady memories of their wedding night, Samantha's early-morning drowsiness reclaimed her. Cradled as she was in Christopher's strong and steady arms, it was easy for her to drift off into a blissful doze.

Foyle was content to let his young wife sleep for now, and cast her an indulgent look, loving the soft outlines of her features pressed against his chest. He had requested an alarm call for half-past eight, reasoning that this would give them time enough to bathe and dress before meeting Sam's parents for breakfast in the hotel restaurant at ten o'clock.

Now, however, he found himself totally alert and with an hour to spare before their wake-up call. He reached—carefully, so as not to disturb Samantha—to the cabinet at his side to retrieve the watch that was her wedding present to him.

It was of recent manufacture, though possibly second-hand—a J W Benson, bearing the mark London 1937—solid silver, as he detected from the hallmark, with a winder on the stem above the dial. With the cover open, the large white enamel dial bore clear black Arabic numerals, split minutes around the edge, and black diamond markings at the quarter-hour intervals. It was a very attractive watch, but also a clear and easy one to read. The Arabic numerals were repeated as engraved figures on the outer case, picked out in blue enamel, and the hands of the watch were clearly visible through the small glass panel in the centre of the cover. In this way, he would be able to tell the time without opening the lid. Samantha, Sweetheart—ever practical, to think of such things, reflected Foyle, and stroked his wife's hair as she dozed against his body.

He fiddled with the cover. In the normal way of things, the case would only open to forty-five degrees. A full ninety-degree opening required depression of the winding stem. Having mastered this idiosyncrasy, Foyle was able to examine the inside of the case-cover, and saw that Sam had had the watch engraved. The words he read there made his eyes mist over:

My darling Christopher,

You make the hours seem short.

Your own Samantha.

On another floor of The Royal Victoria Hotel, Iain Stewart woke from a restful slumber to the slow realisation that this was an out-of-the-ordinary Sunday. Awakening in a strange bed, in a strange hotel, in a strange town, all conspired to disorientate him. To this extent, it took several minutes for him to realise that Geraldine was not, in fact, lying beside him in the bed.

He cast bewildered glances round the room, finally noticing that the door to the bathroom was ajar, and the light was on. For a little while, he thought no more about it, turning on his side in expectation that Geraldine would shortly return. However, after what he estimated to be ten minutes or so, no movement from the bathroom was forthcoming. In fact, he fancied he could hear a weak groan or two emanating from behind the bathroom door.

Regaining some level of alertness, he switched on the bedside lamp and reached for his dressing gown. "Geraldine, my dear, is everything all right?" he called tentatively, reasoning he should not disturb her too much if she were genuinely 'engaged'.

"Oh, God, I want to diiiiie!" It was a groan that chilled right through to Iain's liver. Cautiously, he crossed the room and pushed open the bathroom door. Geraldine was on her knees in front of the lavatory, pale as a ghost, hair hanging over one side of her face, and beads of sweat gleaming on her brow. She shot Iain a pitiful glance before resuming her original position, head inclined over the pan, hands gripping the rim.

Iain was appalled. He stepped inside and knelt beside her, pushing her dishevelled hair out of her eyes and drawing it back to grasp it at the nape of her neck. "My dear, how long have you been ill like this? What on earth is wrong? We ate the same things yesterday, both at luncheon and at dinner…"

Geraldine was too busy focussing on the water in the bottom of the pan to answer questions. For the eighth time in the last half hour, the bile rose in her throat, sending her stomach heaving into spasm. Clear liquid issued from her mouth, and it was several minutes till she sank back onto her haunches, panting to recover from the trauma.

"Iain," she managed between breaths, "ring room service… and ask them… if they could possibly… find me some ginger from the kitchen."

"Ginger, my love? Whatever for?"

"Please, just do as I ask. I think it might help. Before you go, just… pass me a glass of water, would you?"

Iain filled a beaker from the tap and handed it mechanically to Geraldine, then he wandered from the bathroom to pick up the phone. He felt peculiarly detached from proceedings, as if operating in a dream.

"Hello. Eh-heh!" Iain's voice was terribly apologetic. "A strange request, perhaps, at this young hour, but could you possibly send up some… er… some ginger? From the kitchen. Hmm. That's correct. So kind. Thank you."

When he returned to the bathroom, Geraldine was sitting on the floor beside the lavatory, leaning against the bath and sipping her water quietly. Iain sank down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders.

"Feeling any calmer, my love? In the stomach department, I mean to say."

"A little better, now. Perhaps the worst is over for a while." Geraldine's expression was inscrutable, but as soon as she felt her husband's gaze wander from her face, she shot him a sideways glance, weighing up what, if anything, to say next. Eventually her eyes flew up to the ceiling as if seeking divine inspiration. Five more minutes passed in heavy silence, until a knock came at the door.

Iain rose to answer it. "That will be your, er, ginger, I suppose, Dear."

He found a rosy-faced middle-aged woman in black uniform, white frilly apron and frilly cap standing in the corridor, bearing a nicely laid tray with a small bowl of powdered ginger, some cubed sugar, a carafe of iced water and a glass.

"Good morning, Sir!" she greeted him pleasantly. "Here's madam's ginger, as requested."

Iain blinked at her and reached to take the tray, puzzled, as he was fairly sure he had not mentioned that the ginger was for his wife. "Thank you so much," he said. "I'm surprised you were able to find this for us so quickly. Such an unusual request at this hour, after all!" He managed a small, apologetic laugh.

"Oooh, not at all, Sir! You'd be surprised. We get it all the time at this hour—Ladies waking up and suffering from morning sickness. Always got some ginger at the ready! Good morning to you, Sir. I hope your wife feels better soon." Without further ado, she bobbed a semi-curtsey and was off down the corridor, leaving Iain, jaw hanging loose, staring across the corridor into space that seemed to stretch into oblivion.

Geraldine, having finally clawed her way back to an upright position, was just emerging from the bathroom as Iain dropped the tray.

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

More Author's Notes:

So where exactly did Geraldine's doctor get his training? Menopause? Pah! He couldn't spot a pregnant woman when he saw one? Tut. Honestly. But they do say, don't they, fifty percent of doctors graduate in the bottom half of their class ;0) Besides which, all's fair in love, war and fiction… so I'm probably maligning the poor chap.

…

Dreams are fascinating bits of nonsense. Sigmund Freud strenuously denied that he had ever advocated the analysis of symbols in dreams to have a sexual significance. Well, I dunno. But I do know what was going on in my own head when I wrote Sam's dream at the beginning of this chapter. The whirring sound you hear will be old Freud revolving in his grave.

…

Wedding rings were seldom worn by men before the 20th century. They took off in popularity with the advent of the First World War, when newly married soldiers were encouraged by their wives to wear a visible reminder of the waiting wife back home. This new practice took root and carried on into the Second World War, again particularly amongst serving soldiers. Foyle, however, did not fall into this category, and being "old school," would likely have declined to wear a wedding ring.

…

Samantha's message to Christopher, engraved inside his watch, was nicked, in some measure, from The Bard:

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short

OTHELLO, Act II, sc. 3

More soon.

GiuC