For the remainder of the evening Foyle was, naturally, rather subdued; he answered her questions about his earlier years more readily, and gradually began to elaborate on his responses, but he was pre-occupied with working out how he felt. He had never opened this most guarded incident of his life to anyone, or at least, never shared his feelings about it; it was painful to re-visit; it brought up unalterable emotions of remorse, profound sadness, and despair, and he preferred to keep it locked away and private.

He had always felt it could never help to speak of it – and that was precisely what Barbara had said to him. She had listened, had thanked him, and had given him privacy and time to recover. Having learned the details, she was content to close the subject.

And yet, now, it wasn't the same; it wouldn't be locked away in one of his boxes again – the facts were shared between them, perhaps to remain unmentioned for a long time, but acknowledged and, he believed, sympathetically understood.

Foyle watched Barbara's face as she talked, listened to her words and considered the bruised heart and resilient soul before him, and he knew that he truly wished to be with her.

The realisation put an end to his introspections; he came into the present moment fully attentive.

The hour was late; the long day was beginning to tell in shadows under her eyes. Having come to a decision about her, he found himself rather out of his depth and was unsure what to do next, but she was asking him a question.

"And, er, what time do you expect your son…?"

"I should think he'll be on the early train and arrive shortly after ten."

"You must be looking forward to having him home for a few days."

"Yes, yes indeed; Andrew's… only in Debden, but haven't seen him for two months."

Foyle had let his gaze fall towards the hearth, now he suddenly looked up at her,
"I'd very much like you to meet him, Barbara. Perhaps, Saturday, we could join you for lunch at your hotel?"

Her face lit with a delighted smile,
"Yes, I'd like that very much."

"And, er, if he's not busy with his friends, the three of us could have dinner together one night... don't know the duration of his leave as yet, but, er, we'll play it by ear, hmm?"

"That's very kind of you, Christopher."

"On the contrary, should think I'll score some points. He does go on at me to… er, to get out more."

He gave her a sheepish grin and she raised her eyebrows in surprise at his admission.

Their conversation grew more informal and easy, but a half-hour later Barbara stifled a yawn and smiled bashfully.

Foyle gave her a chiding look,
"Come on, then; kept you up till all hours this morning – Can't deprive you of another night's rest."

With an arm around her waist and hers around his, he slowly walked her to the bottom of the stairs. They kissed, and as she rose up onto the first step, sliding her arm from around him, he felt the gentlest upward pressure of her hand on his back and he sensed – no, he understood – that she was inviting him, if a guest could be said to invite her host, to accompany her upstairs. He knew he had only to put his foot on the step and there would be no turning back, no stopping what would follow… but he wouldn't, he couldn't do that. He had to consider their future, their respect for each other and their self-respect; these things must not be jeopardized by a momentary abandonment of self-control.

However, he didn't want to give the impression that he was uninterested, nor that he disapproved of her impulse. It was a delicate situation, and one with which he had never had to contend before – he gazed up into her eyes, bit his bottom lip thoughtfully to show that he was, indeed, aware of her invitation and was wrestling with the temptation; with a slow blink of his eyes he murmured,

"Good-night, Barbara; sleep well."

She smiled, wistfully he thought, a blush rising on her cheeks, said good-night, and made her way up the stairs.

In the back recesses of his mind he wondered if it had, perhaps, unconsciously, been another test, but he doubted it; they had shared so much today that he really believed it had been a genuine and natural extension of her feelings for him…

As he systematically made his nightly round of the house, securing the doors, checking the blackout curtains and breaking up the fire in the hearth to preserve any unconsumed coals, he felt a mild sort of satisfaction and congratulated himself on his conscientious probity under such an enticing inducement.

However, when he went upstairs twenty minutes later, as he approached her bedroom door, he thought he heard muffled sounds of weeping – he couldn't be sure, for the noises ceased as soon as his foot landed on the creaking floorboard at the top of the stairs, the one he had purposely left unrepaired during his son's teenage years and had never got round to fixing. He prepared for bed and undressed with a troubling doubt nagging at his conscience…

At some point in the dream he knew he was dreaming, some alert part of his unconscious mind began to observe the imagined scene and, knowing it was unreal and fleeting, to fervently pray, to will that it not end too soon, before the action could play itself out to the desired conclusion.

The dream had begun in the kitchen with an embrace, her laughing eyes turned up to him over her shoulder as he surprised her with a kiss on the neck; had changed instantly, as dreams do, to the two of them lying naked on the bed, touching, caressing, exciting every part of the other; and then he was moving over her, entranced by her expression of complete surrender to the passion and pleasure they shared. He saw her doe-brown eyes again, shining with love for him, saw the sinuous dark waves of her hair over the pillow; heard her whispered cries, and nearly, tantalisingly had the scent of her warm skin; he felt her hands run down his back and then upwards to pull him closer, deeper; he groaned his ecstasy…

It was this that brought the dream to an abrupt stop at an excruciating moment.

He awoke to his own guttural moan in the silent, dark room, coughed to disguise the sound, but that altered in his throat to a gasping sob. He found himself in an intense, intimately personal predicament – one that he had not experienced to such a degree for some years, and that he was loath to relieve himself of, knowing his guest was in the next room. He rolled onto his side with his back to the door, his chest heaving as his mind strove to recapture the details of the dream – it had been so vivid… he'd not had such a vivid dream of her for many years and he was overcome with an agonised kind of gratitude.

While he steadied his breathing he recalled, so clearly, the living image of her beloved face, and her captivating manner of utter abandonment to the joy of their love-making – she had been a strong, independent, self-possessed person, and it was his sense of his power to bring her to such a reckless state that had always thrilled him. The private passion they inspired in each other had been something completely apart from their public demeanour.

With his mind he had always remembered this, of course, but it was the physical memory that had faded over the years until it had been all but lost to him. As quietly as possible, not in sorrow but with grateful wonder, he wept for this gift of remembrance.

As his emotion subsided he dried his face with the back of his hand and lay thinking, and considered the circumstances that had brought this extraordinary dream to him. He knew that it was inspired by the growing intimacy between himself and Barbara, and he acknowledged again that his attraction to her was more to do with her independent nature than merely her beauty; had the strength of her personality not been hardened by double tragedy into a defensive shell, when they'd first met he might have consciously recognised this similarity to Rosalind.

She had begun to soften her defenses with him quite quickly last April, and he believed they were completely gone now… He recalled that moment in the kitchen when she had suddenly seemed willing to offer herself to him entirely – it had been too unexpected, too soon; then, they hardly knew each other… In less than two days they had confided so much to each other that he now felt a close connection to her; and last night, had he not, truly, been tempted?

He rolled onto his back again, his crisis having nearly resolved itself, raised one knee and rested an arm across his forehead.

In these uncertain times, when death could apparently fall out of the sky at any moment, the general urge to seize some instance of comfort - no, of pleasure - was prevalent. Might she not be feeling that way, too? It seemed fairly clear that she was. Then what had stopped him? The longer view: a possible distant future together, safe within the bonds of matrimony – when this war ended and the world was set right again…

Well, nothing was guaranteed; he, of all people, should understand that.

And, really, how could this in any way jeopardize that future? After all, they were two unencumbered, mature adults; they knew exactly what they were doing; they liked and respected each other – perhaps they would eventually marry, if the fates allowed. Perhaps… they were in love.

The thought gave him pause: could he have fallen in love so quickly? Had he contemplated marriage to Barbara without recognizing, acknowledging… that he loved her? That she… loved him?

Foyle let his arm fall onto the mattress and stared intensely into the darkness above him.
By god! What on earth had he been thinking?

This fascinating, alluring woman had sought him out, had put herself to no small amount of trouble to come to him, had taken her courage in her hands, risked a great deal of her pride, and made such a bold move–! Yet he had retreated behind conventions outmoded by the times and essentially irrelevant at his stage of life.

Where was his passion!?

What must she think of him, now?

And he had heard her weeping…

Christ.

Foyle squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace of self-reproach.

He'd undoubtedly missed his chance, a chance to share with her, not only a deeply satisfying pleasure, but what could be the highest expression of trust and commitment to one another, if done in the right spirit…

He understood now that he had made a dreadful mistake.
It was hardly something for which he could apologise in the morning…
Foyle closed his eyes and heaved a despondent sigh into the darkness.

He could not sleep again, plagued with thoughts and schemes as to how to repair the damage he had certainly done. He rose early, washed and dressed and went quietly downstairs. It was too soon to begin preparing the breakfast, so he made a pot of tea and drank a cup in the sitting room. He felt decidedly regretful, staring into the rekindled flames in the hearth, and was determined to make amends for his stupidity.

But first he telephoned the Arms, confirmed they had a vacancy and reserved the room for her. Eventually he heard quiet stirring overhead, but it was a long time before she came down. When her feet sounded on the stairs, he rose and made an effort to look cheerful, however, the sight of her suitcase was instantly disheartening. She set it down in the hall before greeting him somewhat cautiously.

"Good morning, Christopher…"

She gave him a small smile and kissed his cheek. He saw the telltale puffiness around her eyes, and felt the new reserve in her manner, and it brought a sensible pain to his heart. Gently he took hold of her and gathered her into his arms.

"Good morning, darling."

At his use of the endearment she tightened her embrace; they stood some moments together, until she turned away, crossing the room to draw the curtains and take down the blackout cloth.

"I've changed the linens and remade Andrew's bed, so he'll find no trace of me… I should imagine he's inherited your eye for observation and deduction?"

"He's shown no particular signs that way…"

He watched her, frustrated and undecided, various phrases of explanation and apology running through his mind. Somehow they all seemed quite impossible to say.

She picked up his empty teacup,
"Any more of this…?"

The simple request galvanized him into a display of energy; he attentively put an arm around her shoulders to lead her into the kitchen, and seated her at the table.

"Of course! Hungry? Or is it too soon– er, that is, too early – because, if you're hungry now, we should breakfast– I'll start the breakfast. No reason to wait, to put it off –."

She looked at him sideways,
"No, just a cup of tea would be lovely."

He continued talking as he reached down another cup and lifted the pot, turning back to her,

"People should eat when they're hungry, really, don't you agree? Not at some set time… determined by convention or… the clock on the wall… Especially in times like these, so many people work all hours, odd locations… Should take the opportunity when they can…"

He felt he was babbling, stopped, and cleared his throat. He turned away to pour the tea, and then passed the cup with both hands, covering her fingers with his,

"Just milk; no sugar."

He offered her a brief smile, refilled his own cup and sat down opposite her at the table. She watched him with a frank curiosity that he found almost disconcerting; after an uncomfortable pause a sudden inspiration struck him,

"Haven't asked the name of your favourite flower."

"No… and it's terribly remiss of you."

She smiled behind her cup, amused at his efforts, he supposed. He rather liked the way she did that – Rosalind had always had the knack of taking the mickey out of him.

"It is. Dreadfully. I– I apologise. What is it?"

She looked down thoughtfully, then met his eyes,

"I've always preferred wildflowers, and I used to favour the Rosebay Willowherb, Chamerion angustifolium, but now it grows so prolifically in bombsites that the associations are unpleasant. This past summer I got to know Phyteuma orbiculare – it's found most commonly on the South Downs, you know, and I became rather attached to it. Whenever I come across it at another location, it's like finding a dear friend."

She rested her elbows on the table, her hands folded together below her chin.

"What's its English name?"

"The Round-headed Rampion."

Knowing little about flowers, Foyle wondered if he was meant to blush, if it was some reference, like the line in 'Hamlet' describing Ophelia's garlands, but she smiled quite innocently, and then instructively held a hand out before him, palm-up and forming a hollow ball with her fingers.

"It has narrow little petals in sharp-blue that curl up into the centre – forming a round head, hence the name; it looks as if it could trap something in there – but it doesn't – it simply waits for the honeybee to come along… and happily accepts whatever attention it receives."

She sipped her tea while he digested this, and concluded,
"We have much to learn from the flowers…"

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully,
"You're quoting something?"

"I don't think so… perhaps; or it's just a poetic inspiration of my own."

"Hmm… sounds rather like an important truth." He scratched the side of his head,
"And, garden variety flowers?"

"Oh, everything – the more the merrier – a riot of colour and shape and scent!"

He smiled,
"Not a formalist when it comes to gardens, then?"

"I do, certainly, appreciate a formal, classically-designed garden for its merits, but it's not my taste."

Foyle nodded, and lifted his eyebrows inquiringly,
"Your favourite colour?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Of course I do."

"Will you be keeping a file on me?"

"Only in here." He tapped a finger on his temple.

"Ah, but men are notorious for forgetting–."

He seized her hand impulsively as it rested on the table,
"Not me."

Seeing he had startled her, he let it go and said reassuringly,
"I don't forget."

She gave him an uncertain smile,
"Like an elephant, then?"

"Well, …rather an unfortunate comparison, but yes, suppose so. For certain… important things."

She pressed her lips together, then ran the tip of her tongue between them,
"Being a nature-lover, I prefer all shades of green…"

"I've noticed."

He sat back in the chair, one hand lightly toying with the handle of his teacup, and met her eyes,

"You have… a pine-green corduroy jacket; a hunter-green cardigan; an olive-drab jumper, though of course that's Land Army-issue and not your own choice; yesterday you wore a shamrock-green scarf and a very fine, antique, twenty-four carat gold brooch re-set with costume emeralds – which… leads me to believe that your sense of practicality is stronger than any tendency towards sentimentality; but that's beside the point–."

Barbara stared at him, disconcerted yet fascinated.
He leaned forward on the table, still absently playing with the teacup.

"Last April… you dyed the German's parachute silk a subtle jade-green that… beautifully complimented the green in your eyes."

He tilted his head to one side, eyebrows raised, and half-smiled.

She had watched his face closely while he talked, had gone very still, and now seemed at a loss for words.

Thoughtfully she rose from her chair, carried their two cups to the sink, and took in a breath,
"…However, lately I find myself quite partial to an unusual, bright, sky-blue."

He turned towards her, rising to his feet,
"Where, in nature, have you found that colour?"

"It's rare; I've only seen the exact shade in… one location, and even then, in different lights, it changes; I don't think it could be matched, really."

"I see; and you prefer this odd, inconsistent, blue-ish colour, now?" he queried, moving close to her.

"Yes, it's something I'd very much like to have near me."

"How would that be possible? You say it's found in only one location. You have to travel from place to place…"

"Yes …well, I'm afraid that's my lot for the duration."

He fixed his lucid, electric-blue eyes on hers.

She put her hand up to touch the side of his face and continued very quietly,
"I suppose… I'll have to be content… to return whenever I get leave…"

Under his penetrating look she slowly melted against him; he brought his arms up to hold her and brushed his lips on her cheek.

"Hoped you might consider it… for the duration. And… when the war is over… perhaps… a permanent re-location? You are fond of the South Downs…"

With a tremulous smile she nodded, then gave a short laugh and blinked back a tear.

"Barbara, ...so glad you came to Hastings for Christmas…"

He drew her closer and pressed his mouth on hers in a gently exploring, probing kiss, as if seeking answers to all his questions in this embrace. She responded rather more ardently and he began to feel an intoxicating level of excitement; they paused, breathing slowly, heads together.

"I have to leave…"

"Yes. Bad timing on my part."

She smiled,
"No, it's all right… No 'shabby tigers' here, I see."

He squinted at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry; it's from a… rather silly novel a girl at my billet lent me when I had nothing better to read – an amateur detective novel, actually."

"I see. You'll have to explain the reference to me sometime."

"I have a feeling that won't be necessary."

She took hold of his hand and turned it round to look at his wristwatch.
"Hmm, quarter past nine."

"Should order the taxi." He made a regretful face.

"Yes." She smiled a wistful smile and followed him through to the sitting room.

In the hall, he had just put his hand over the telephone when it rang; he turned and gave her a look before picking up the receiver.

"Foyle here. Andrew! Where are you? Just outside Debden…? Oh, yes… That's very kind of them. Is that so? A sister… I see. No, that's all right, son; no, I'm fine. Just… have a very good time and I'll see you this evening. Half past five– do you need a ride from the station? No, but I could meet you with a taxi… Ah. Well, I'll just hang on here, then."

He put the phone down, stood thoughtfully a moment, but when he turned to speak, she was suddenly right there in front of him, an expectant blush over her features.

"He's… catching a later train."

"Oh– yes?"

"Yes… so there's no need to rush off just –."

Before he could finish she was in his arms and he met her kiss eagerly. She pressed herself against him in an unexpectedly intimate way; he hesitated and was about to suggest they go upstairs when her hand discovered and began to encourage his aroused condition. He gasped, surprised and disconcerted, and was shocked when she slid down onto her knees before him.

Almost roughly he pulled her up by her arms and held her tight to his chest, appalled by the craven submission. He said hoarsely in her ear,
"Barbara, - don't want to see you like that."

Taking her by the shoulders he stared anxiously into her face, but she kept her eyes down, overcome with shame – more than that, she was frightened.

Her voice was a tearful whisper,
"It's what he expected of me… You wouldn't–. And I didn't know if…"

"No; never. I'd never ask…"

"He didn't ask." She said dully.

"Oh, god; I'm so sorry –." He held her very gently, stroking her hair,
"Perhaps we should talk about it…"

"No! I don't want to talk about it! I want you... to make love to me…" She shut her eyes in despair.

Foyle took in a breath and looked up at the ceiling; he kissed her brow, lifted her chin so that she met his eyes, and murmured,
"I'd rather make love with you…"

tbc...