Chapter Three
A steady drizzle began as they made their way back to the parade, and Foyle attributed Sam's somewhat gloomy silence during their return to a determination to get through the damp cold as quickly as possible. Though feeling a little woozy again, he was sorely tempted to warm up with a whiskey once they were at last through the front door. He knew neither Sam nor Dougherty would approve.
"I've enough cocoa for us both, Sam. Interested?"
Sam nodded distractedly, following him to the kitchen.
How did it get to be teatime so fast? Will he want me to stay for dinner? Please, God….
"Hope it's not so dreary tomorrow, Sir."
Not very original, Samantha. She sighed inwardly, mentally rolling her eyes. Resorting to the weather. Honestly!
"I hope we won't have to postpone tomorrow for a downpour." Foyle busied himself with heating milk for a few moments, the familiar routine not requiring much of his attention. Sam watched him, savouring the domesticity, but not distracted by it.
"You said that Mrs Melcent hasn't seen her son in nearly a week?"
"Yesss... but it didn't seem unusual to her at first—he sometimes goes off on 'benders,' as she described it. But I think for this long isn't a good sign, especially as he has been running with what she perceives as rather a rough crowd."
"What sort of work does he do?" Sam enquired.
"Lorry driver, though she also said something about his having lost a position. If his employer is to be found on a Saturday, we might try to talk with him as well. Mrs Melcent fears that he may be involved in some black market activity."
Sam nodded pensively. "Saturday might be a better day than most to find his boss, as he's less likely to be on the road himself, or could be catching up on accounts."
Foyle agreed and nodded thoughtfully. "Why don't you wear smart civilian clothes tomorrow, instead of your uniform?"
Sam looked at him with a mixture of surprise and puzzlement. "Why, Sir?"
"I'd like you to be with me when I talk with Mrs Melcent. More as my assistant than my driver. That is to say, I want you to be there when I ask her questions, and to help me remember some of the details of what we learn."
"Really?" Sam could not suppress a gloriously proud grin and her brown eyes sparkled with the warmth he loved so much.
To see her look that happy, I'd do most anything. But I do want her to assist me. I can generally count on her not to make a wrong move; she asks excellent questions, and she often finds a way to lead the women I'm interrogating to say more than they usually would.
Secretly amused, he did his slight sideways dip. "Absolutely."
"Happy to help in any way I can, Sir."
Foyle was particularly glad he had saved the last of the drinking chocolate, as it seemed to have perked up his dear but dejected Sam to be sipping it, and was a fine means of warming themselves after such a cold walk.
"How quiet you were on our walk home," he observed as they took their mugs of cocoa into the front room. "Tired, Florence Nightingale?"
Sam wasn't tired. Quite the contrary: she felt as if her nerves would never still. Seeing him injured the day before, she had feared so much for his safety—and now, taking care of him in his own home, she found it difficult to think of things going back to the way they had been. She still hadn't got up the courage to say anything to him, despite the openings he had given her. It frightened her too much to think of losing him, in another way, if he were to turn her down and tell her that she was foolish to view him as more than her boss.
She quickly changed the subject, lest he think she was too tired for conversation. "Where is that piano?"
With only a mild lift of one eyebrow as comment, he placed his cup on his side table and moved to a piece of furniture beside the door. Its brown cover had always obscured the upright instrument, and, what's more, Foyle had to move several books and a vase before lifting off the cover. Pulling the bench from underneath, he opened its lid and riffled through the sheets and slender books of music therein. He removed a selection of Schubert exercises and a book of Debussy, then turned to the Impromptu in G-flat Major, the piece they had heard earlier that afternoon on the shore.
Sitting, he experimented with a few chords. It could stand a tuning, but it would be adequate for his rusty skills. Standing beside the piano's cabinet, Sam raised her eyebrows first with anticipation, then approval as he began to play.
Christopher was relieved that some dormant memory helped him through the piece with barely any mistakes. He looked up to see Samantha's dark eyes shimmering. He said nothing, but regarded her with concern.
"Don't mind me," she said, sniffling discreetly. "It's just that I think you play beautifully." At his amused but skeptical expression she hastened to add, "No—truly. There is so much feeling that I didn't notice on the record..."
"We were just too far away," he murmured matter-of-factly, trying his hand at a Debussy Arabesque. To Sam he appeared very much as she had earlier imagined him, serene and graceful in his movements. He paused and they talked of favourite works for a while, and he was pleasantly surprised at the scope of her knowledge. Their only past conversations concerning music had been about popular stuff—music hall songs, swing orchestras. He had no real like or dislike of these genres, but he did feel a trifle out of his depth with more recent popular music.
"Did you ever play for a recital or performance?" she asked him.
He shook his head with a modest smile. "Just parties... dances... evenings at home." He suddenly remembered one such evening, when his wife had sat next to him and leant against his shoulder; how much he had liked her gentle presence as he swayed slightly upon the piano bench. His eyes took on a distant look as he resumed his playing, and briefly reflected sadness. Sam longed to sit beside him, but as she could not play, she reasoned that it would only seem odd to him.
Christopher halted again to work out an unfamiliar passage in the music. He smiled apologetically at the discord, but Sam's thoughts momentarily appeared to be elsewhere.
She looks as if she has something on her mind, but isn't sure how to begin.
Sam was noting the waning light at the windows, which reminded her that their rare idyll was nearing its end. If only Dr Dougherty had insisted that I stay another night. It would save me a ride home and back. Her own practicality (and perhaps justification) amused her.
Her self-deprecating smile became shy. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
He stopped playing and waited. Usually, under other circumstances, she would immediately launch into the actual question without awaiting his affirmation, but this time she was still.
"Of course not. What is it?" He tipped his head, a puzzled little smile tugging at one edge of his mouth.
To Sam he seemed dearer than ever, and yet she knew what she was about to say might put everything they had together at risk.
"Wouldn't you have missed it here, if you had gone away?" She was no longer looking at him, but appeared to be studying the flames in the fireplace. He tried to read her posture and expression, but she was striving to look neutral.
She wants to know whether I would miss working with her, and home and Hastings. And perhaps what would have happened to her job if I'd left.
He skewed his mouth as he weighed the wisdom of telling her some half-truth. He did not want to hurt her feelings by implying that he would not have missed her. Part of him had hoped the move would help him get over her, if that were the way it had to be. No amount of distance would make him forget her.
"I've lived in Hastings nearly all my life, except during the last War. It's hard to know how I'd feel, but I would have adjusted, I expect. I'd hoped to be too busy to worry about it much."
Sam bit her lip. "Yes, but—"
"I knew it would affect your job, Sam, and I know you've been… that it has been a good fit. But I was confident that you could find another. You're so capable."
His face was giving nothing away. She shifted restlessly, then crossed the room to sit in the chair opposite his usual spot.
Christopher rose and sat in his chair, retrieving his now-lukewarm cocoa and absently circulating the cup by its rim in both hands.
"I've been trying for quite some time to get an assignment more relevant to the war effort, and my brother-in-law Charles alerted me to this post. I was offered one last spring, but that turned out to be Commissioner Summers' bid to get me removed from the case I was investigating before I discovered his involvement."
He paused for so long that Sam leant forward slightly in her chair, reminding him that she still was listening attentively.
Foyle cleared his throat. "They proposed the first assignment when we'd only just started to work together; before I knew you very well. When this one came up, I liked the idea of it, but it did bother me to think—" Sam looked at him expectantly, but his eyes were still focused on the mug in his hands. Suddenly he looked up and their eyes locked. Sam wondered if she were merely being fanciful in thinking that his words carried extra weight.
"—to realise that I would miss it here, very much."
He broke their gaze first. "Shall we bundle up and go out to dinner before you go, Sam? It's the least I can do for you."
Luckily the dismal rain had subsided and the night was clear enough to reveal a few stars. Their stroll to dinner was far less bleak than their earlier excursion that day, though each kept drifting into his own thoughts and falling silent. Their conversation at the quiet little restaurant was a review of all that had happened in Leavenham—at least, all of it that Foyle was at liberty to tell her—and they filled each other in on each side of the discoveries. He asked her to thank her uncle once again for his hospitality, although they shared a laugh over Christopher's reluctance to go so far as to appreciate Aubrey's peculiar green wine.
Though unhappy to be ending their day, Sam felt a residual warmth from the more-substantial-than-usual meal and the glass of very good wine her dinner companion had encouraged her to have despite his own abstention. Wispy clouds were blowing past the moon as they left the restaurant, but the icy wind that accompanied this lovely tableau made her shiver.
She didn't bring a heavy enough coat for this temperature. Well, how was she to know it would drop so sharply when she planned for a night away from home to help me? Her teeth are chattering!
Christopher slipped his arm through Samantha's and directed them to walk close side-by-side. Her heart was in her throat in an instant, but she tried to hide this by taking a deep breath and launching into questions about their schedule next day. He was buoyed by the fact that she didn't flinch or seem uncomfortable at the contact; except for the occasional guiding hand at her back or brush of his shoulder near hers, it was the first time they'd ever touched.
At least, the first time while he has been conscious, Sam smirked, after thinking precisely the same thing. So strong was her physical reaction to his nearness that she feared her digestive system would not react well to her generous meal. Another deep breath. Calm down, Sam, she admonished herself.
The Wolseley had remained in front of the house for the day, so the plan was for her to drive it home and return for him at 9:00 a.m. Still, she would need to come back in the house and gather her things before she went back to her flat.
Sam's boss reluctantly released her arm and walked up the front steps ahead of her to unlock the door.
It's only eight o'clock. I don't want her to go.
Both were awkwardly silent as they entered the house.
"I'll just go pack up," she said quickly in a stilted way, then hurried up the stairs.
It took her barely any time at all to put her night things and uniform away in the small suitcase, and she checked the bathroom to see if she had left any items on the sink or bath ledge. Sam went back to Foyle's bedroom door and glanced in once more. His bed was still a bit rumpled and his pyjamas draped at the foot of the coverlet. Impulsively she crept in and sat where he had lain, smoothing one hand over the sheet, holding back tears. Somehow it felt as if she had been here far longer than one night and one day. How close she had come to losing him! She listened carefully for any sound of Christopher downstairs, then lay down in his place and held his pillow for a moment. Her stomach twisted into its oddly pleasant discomfort again as she breathed in his scent.
"Sam?"
She sat up in a shot, blushing profusely. Christopher stood in the doorway, drying his hands with a dish towel, looking genuinely worried.
"Are you all right?" He approached her as she stood up, lifting his hand as if to touch her wounded forehead, but stopped himself just in time. "Your head hurting you?"
She seized on his supposition and nodded, acutely embarrassed and wondering if he had any idea what she had really been doing in his bed. "I—yes, I suddenly felt just a bit dizzy, and…"
She waved vaguely at the bed and shrugged one shoulder.
"I was just making some tea. Do you want to stay there a little while longer, and I'll bring you a cup?"
She smiled through nervous tears. "Role reversal." She coloured again. "I'd better come down and have it, then. I—I'm sure I shall be all right."
Foyle was somewhat alarmed by her tears. In his opinion, she did not look quite so well as she had earlier, despite her high colour. Perhaps she had worn herself out looking after him, after all the strain of the day before; perhaps she was running a fever.
"Sure that isn't bothering you too much?" This time he did touch her forehead, and at that moment his own brow furrowed. No fever, but there is so much pain in her eyes…
"No, really, I'll be fine, but…" She fidgeted uncomfortably, and couldn't meet his eyes. "It's just that… I was so worried about you, more than you could ever know."
He stared at her, moved by the quaver of emotion in her voice. He should expect that she'd worry about a colleague and friend, but to appear so deeply concerned as she did, to look and sound as if on the verge of tears at the idea of his having been injured…
Once again Foyle chastised himself for reading too much into these little moments between them. But there had been so very many of them; that was the thing. Moments when their eyes locked, and each seemed to read the other's thoughts. Moments when their shared laughter felt like a delicious secret. Moments when he could swear that his desire to kiss her was reflected in her eyes; her gaze would rest ever so briefly on his lips, then dart away… and yet again he'd wonder if he were imagining things.
But now that his concussion symptoms were gone and his peaceful hours with her had relaxed his tight rein on his inhibitions, he felt more articulate and organised in his thinking. Still standing near her, he gently asked his driver, "What made you so worried, Sam?"
She scanned his face for some clue to his thoughts. "I—um, I worried about you because I was afraid that awful blow on your head might change you somehow, or truly compromise you." She looked down, shy again. "In fact, when you were knocked out in the accident, my first thought was that you might be dead, and if that had happened…" she faltered, her voice choking with tears.
He was looking wide-eyed at her again, his mouth agape, and Sam's heart melted at how much it reminded her of his expression the first time they met, when she'd strode into his office and saluted him.
Foyle's mind could not yet accept the possible implications of her words, but like Pandora, he still had hope left. He couldn't let the chance pass him by. He calmed himself, trying to keep his expression open, and casually remarked, as he had earlier in the week in the car, "Sam, it'd be easy to find another job."
Samantha huffed, looking at him incredulously. "You think I'd be bereft if you died because I'd be out of a job?" She turned away from him and tried to pace in the tiny space between him and his bedside table. "I'd give any job in the world to be sure you were well and not in pain. I'd give…" She halted, her eyes burning into his, and then blurted out, "Sir, I would give my life…" her eyes widened as she realized what she'd said, and she wheeled about, her hand clapped over her mouth.
"You'd… ? Sam! Sam, look at me!"
She turned to him and held his eyes as she burst out, "I can't help it and I have to tell you. I've been in love with you for months. Almost from the start. I know you probably think I'm some silly young flibbertigibbet"—Sam tripped hopelessly over this word—"with… with a schoolgirl thing for a man she admires. That's not what it is. I do admire you. And I have a thing for you. But it is not silly. It is very real. And when I thought I might have lost you, I realised that I had to tell—"
Christopher pulled a stunned Sam into his arms and captured her mouth, in part to quiet her stream of confession, but in truth to taste at last the lips that had long haunted his dreams. But one kiss wasn't enough; one gave way to another and then another, until both of them were breathless. He was startled to realize that he did not feel the least unsteady on his feet; perhaps it was symbolic, he thought, that as long as he was holding onto her he would be strong and confident. His hand moved without conscious thought up Sam's back, to slip under her hair and clasp her neck as he moved his mouth hungrily over hers, and she clung back, wanting to feel what it was like to have her arms around his waist, his shoulders, his neck.
His softly curling hair she had longed to stroke was beneath her fingertips and she was so swept away by the sensations his kisses brought her that she wanted everything to just please slow down so that she could savour it.
At length Christopher reluctantly pulled back, holding her at arms' length, and her soft little hum of protest thrilled him. "Oh, Sam," he murmured, shaking his head, his eyes still closed.
She waited for him to open them so that they could both take a long, close look at each other without reservation. As they did so, each seemed to fill with greater happiness until it overflowed their eyes. Then his eyebrow made its familiar quirk and he spoke gently again.
"Are you sure, darling girl? You're so young, and I'm—"
"You're… what? Certainly not old. You're more experienced and mature, but… you are youthful to me."
Gratefully he bent to kiss her again, even more passionately than before, craving the warm sweetness of her, and she felt her knees go out on her so that she had to clutch him more tightly to keep standing. He carefully braced his lower body so that it was not pressed against hers. She was not the only one whose knees felt watery, but a glance down had reminded him that they stood only inches from his bed. No matter how tempting that was at this amazing moment, it was too soon.
Christopher raised his head slightly, keeping his lips nearly touching hers, and said softly, "Sam… if you only knew how much I've wanted to tell you the same thing… how much I…" His eyes were wet as he stroked back her hair.
She kissed him, moaning quietly, and he almost lost control of himself.
She's in my arms—it's not just a dream, and she desires me, just as I've so long needed her. I can't believe this is happening… but I'd best get us out of this bedroom quickly. He summoned the willpower to separate his lips from hers again, and shook his head with disbelief as he drank in her joyous eyes.
"Sam… dear... this isn't going to be easy for us." He thought of her father, and his son. How would they ever begin to explain to Reverend Stewart and Andrew?
She was smiling. "Nothing could make me prouder than saying I'm in love with you. I'm ready to shout it from the rooftops!"
He laughed at the image. Lifting her hand to kiss it, he then led her to the door. "Go on downstairs, Sam. I'll join you in just a few minutes."
She kissed his cheek, picked up her suitcase, and honoured his request.
In a daze he slowly took a seat on the bed where she had sat only minutes before. Christopher Foyle, age forty-eight and in love with a woman not even half that. He had thought it up and down, debated with himself whether it would be fair to her, wondered what on earth his son and his brother-in-law and his sergeant and his friends would think. Would they instantly imagine that he was an older man in authority, taking advantage of the young and impressionable woman in his employ? But that wasn't fair to Sam; she wasn't that kind of impressionable. She was brilliant, sensible, optimistic, sweet. She was wonderful, and to imagine going anywhere without her plunged him into depression.
Holding her in his arms at last and feeling her yield to him, far from quelling his desire for her, had made it even stronger. But if he let her stay here now, now that they had known each other's lips and said these things, he would be tempting fate. He had no idea whether Sam understood what it meant for her to stay longer in his house, now that they had admitted their love to each other. Nor did he know if she had noticed, as he had, just how close they had been to his bed, how easy it would have been to...
Foyle pushed the thought from his mind. If only she would marry him (please God), she would be his in every sense and he would be hers… but not before.
Sam was just pouring their tea as he reached the foot of the stairs and entered the living room. Her coppery hair shone in the glow of the fire; she had turned off the other lights in the rooms. He considered whether to sit in his chair, rather than beside her on the settee, but she had placed a small folding table before the sofa. The tea tray and his cup were already there, hinting that he should join her. He gave her one of his small smiles as he sat beside her, and watched her prepare his cup.
How very civilised we are, having our after-passion tea. What do I say to her, now? I can't have her thinking I don't want her, but it's a bit early to spring the marriage idea on her. Is that even what she wants? Sam's not the type to want only an affair… but how do I know that? It's not as if we ever talked about any of this.
"Sam…"
She looked at him almost fearfully, worried that he might have had second thoughts, or decided he was far too old for her, and that for her own good he should not let this proceed.
The expression on her face wrung his heart. He quickly put down his cup and saucer and touched her cheek. "What's wrong, my sweet?"
She blushed and smiled that magnificent smile again. "You sounded as if you had news to break to me. I was afraid I wouldn't like it."
"What sort wouldn't you like?"
"Oh… for you to decide it couldn't work between us, because of the difference in our ages. Or…" Or for you to make sure I understood that this likely wouldn't lead to marriage…
His voice was so quiet that she barely heard him. "Or what?"
Sam shook her head. I've admitted my feelings, but I'll not propose marriage to him.
His thumb still caressed her cheek, and the effect on her was causing the teacup to clatter in her saucer. She placed it on the table beside his, and he closed the space between them, gathering her into his arms and turning her chin to feel her lovely warm lips beneath his again.
But presently he drew away and then just hugged her tightly, murmuring her name and trying to gather his self-control again as he rocked her in his embrace, his hand stroking her hair in a way more comforting than sensual. At length he looked into her eyes. "It's because I love and respect you that I've got to send you home now. Do you understand?"
Sam searched his eyes with hers, and nodded. She understood completely and it touched her heart. He had beautifully communicated both how much he desired her and that he didn't feel it was the right time to act upon that desire. "I understand, Christopher."
She had never seen him smile as broadly as he did at the sound of his first name on her lips. She stroked his dear face, from temple to cheek, and saw so much love in his eyes that she knew they would be able to talk more about all of this, soon. Together they would decide the right time for everything that would happen from now on.