The Crash
Rating: T
Pairing: Samantha Stewart and Christopher Foyle
A/N: This A/U story of Sam and Mr Foyle is based on scenes from "The French Drop," "Enemy Fire," and (soon) "They Fought in the Fields." I welcome your feedback.
Thanks again to jewell and hazeleyes for indispensable co-writing/editing.
Chapter Seven
As they walked across the foyer of Arthur Whitehall's Cambridge home, Christopher Foyle reflected on the thrill he got simply from helping Samantha Stewart on with her coat; the chance to stand near this beautiful girl and to touch her in the course of placing it on her shoulders. The back of his hand had just brushed across the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. He consciously held back the shiver just that slight contact had aroused in him.
Arthur spoke to his departing guests from the doorway, breaking Foyle's reverie.
"So good to see you again, Christopher. Miss Stewart, it has been a singular pleasure to meet you. I hope to see you again quite soon."
"Thank you for a wonderful party. I feel almost as if there were no war at all," Sam smiled at their host.
"Miss Stewart," Arthur pulled her slightly away from Christopher's side and told her quietly, "It's been years since I have seen Christopher looking so at ease and happy. Please take good care of my friend."
Then Whitehall smiled broadly and produced a small package wrapped in newsprint. "A small gift for you. I hope you enjoy it."
Christopher good-naturedly reclaimed Sam from his friend and bade him goodbye with fondness.
As they walked down the steps of the house Foyle glanced down at Sam's shoes and asked, "It's not too far to the inn; will you be all right with the walk?"
"Oh yes, Christopher," Sam replied. "You haven't worn me out completely."
"It wasn't my dances with you that I was concerned about," Christopher said with a smug and amused smile, "but some of those spotty young men I reluctantly allowed to dance with you looked quite inept."
"Yes, it's so nice to finally be away and alone with you." She sighed and he felt his heart rate increase. "I'm glad we got to dance as much as we did, but I wish every dance had been with you."
"What's in the package Arthur gave you?"
"I won't know exactly what until we get it into the light and unwrap it, but it feels like a book."
They strolled past darkened houses in companionable silence for a minute.
"Has Mr Whitehall ever been married?"
Foyle glanced at Sam, then down at the ground before he looked back at her and hesitantly answered.
"No."
Sam's look was filled with curiosity. Christopher was usually quite forthcoming with her. Why is he being so cautious?
Foyle took a deep breath. Go on—you trust her.
"Arthur is and has been my dear and trusted friend. He is a strong and courageous man—he fought in the last war, you know—but he never has married and I'm sure he never will."
Sam thought about Christopher's answer, knowing there was more to what he had said than just the words.
"Oh," Sam said, then paused for a bit. "A tortured soul, my father would call him—and then proceed to try and save him from this 'evil.'"
"And… what do you think, Sam?"
"He didn't seem tortured at all. He seems quite happy."
She went on, "I believe that the Lord God has created each of us in the manner He wished, and unless one is visiting evil on any of His other creations, it's of no matter to me. My father's view on sin is rather inflexible compared to mine, I'm afraid."
Foyle felt a rush of love for this young girl, a physical sensation that threatened to break through his chest. So young and so mature. This was why their love was not ridiculous. Her maturity of thought is astonishing in one so young. I hope I can be her equal.
Once they had arrived at The Eagle, Foyle walked Sam to her door, just around the turn of the corridor and down a short distance from his.
"Goodnight, my darling," he whispered, pulling her close to give her a gentle, lingering kiss. She closed her eyes and emitted one of those fervent sounds of pleasure that always threatened to undo him, but he pulled away with obvious reluctance, a faint smile on his lips.
"Don't you want to come in?" she asked him, blinking slowly, her voice low. He was surprised, though not unpleasantly, by her artless seductiveness.
"Mmm. Not sure that would be such a good idea."
Sam gave him her beaming grin, her gaze alight in that way she had only when looking at him. He closed his eyes, taking a long breath as she tugged at his sleeve.
The still-soft voice took on a gently wheedling tone.
"But you said we might have a nightcap... Or, there is a little hotplate for the kettle in here. Let me make you some tea."
Christopher worried his lip, wondering if there were any way he could realistically enter her room and maintain his already taxed self-control. All evening long he had been imagining her as she had been the week before, beneath him in his arms on the floor, sweetly begging him with impassioned tones and the tilt of her body towards his... Just as now, he'd had to suppress this line of thought before he found his body reacting to it.
Sam hugged him again. "It's been such a lovely evening. But I didn't get enough time with you."
It took all Foyle's effort to resist what he wanted as much as Sam did.
"We'll have all day together tomorrow, y'know." He kissed her cheek; let his hands carefully shape along her waist. He forced himself not to stroke upward to her chest even as his hands gravitated in that direction, seemingly of their own will.
She sighed. "Hmm, yes, but most of the time then we'll be driving. What I mean is time to be..." she suddenly melded against him... "close to you."
He moved his hips away from hers quickly. "God knows, my dearest girl, I want to be close, too, but I don't want to compromise you, and we are away at an inn..."
Samantha's eyes searched his, and he could see questions in their depths. His mind churned with questions also.
Does she want to spend this night with me? Even without knowing that I'd marry her in a heartbeat? His sudden little smile was almost self-mocking. Maybe she does know.
"Sam..."
But she had opened the door and pulled him by the wrist so that they stood just inside it. He felt dazed; only one drink had he consumed that evening, and yet he could scarcely remember how he got from one side of this door to the other.
True to her word, Samantha disappeared into the bathroom to fill the little tea kettle, then fussed with the small portable hob near the window, gently shaking the crinkled bag of tea provided to see how much they had.
He sat in the armchair and watched her with contentment. There's nothing to worry about. We'll just talk and have tea, and then I'll go.
"What needs doing Monday?" she asked, carefully removing the paper from Arthur's gift.
He rubbed his forehead with one hand. "We'll see how Milner's done with the questions he was planning to ask Walter Mansfield. Might be follow-up. And I was thinking of checking in on Mrs Melcent and Daphne tomorrow, just to be sure they are all right. But only if you'd like to... haven't been giving you much time to yourself, I realise."
She smiled tolerantly at his assumption that she'd ever be reluctant to go anywhere with him.
"Look! His newest!" She held up for display a novel with an attractive design on the dust jacket. Sam read aloud the synopsis on the fold of the front cover. "How splendid it will be to read a book by an author I've come to know."
She set the book near her case and checked the kettle.
"When must Andrew go back to base?"
"I think he said he's to report back Monday morning. So lunch with him... or dinner."
"That would be nice."
They had talked during their drive to Cambridge about Andrew's enthusiastic response to the news that his father was seeing a young woman with whom Andrew had spent time himself. It was then that Sam had made it clear to Christopher how much more like friendship than romance her relationship with his son had been. She had laughed, musing, "I think he knew before I did that you were the one I really wanted."
Now Sam appeared a little pensive. Christopher doesn't get to see Andrew often enough. Selfish of you to wish even for a moment that we could have all of Sunday to ourselves after the socialising...
Her heart melted to see her boss regarding her with his dear crumpled smile and dancing eyes. Reading my mind again.
Their gaze held for a long moment; then she responded to the muted shriek of the tiny kettle and poured steaming water into an equally tiny teapot. She examined the stained china of the cups provided and turned back towards him only to find that he had risen and was directly behind her.
Foyle took her into his arms and kissed her so passionately that she lost all equilibrium. Sam tried to say his name as he briefly parted from her to change the angle of his head, but before she could speak his mouth was firmly claiming hers again. One hand was entwined in her hair and his grasp of her waist was so determined that she felt an exhilarating sense of something akin to danger.
Christopher couldn't be quite sure (as he contemplated it later) how his caution had so readily flown out the window, but it had something to do with her figure in that form-fitting dress, her warm eyes looking at him so lovingly, and his knowledge that she could spend six straight days with him and still want to be with him alone for one more. All that he could think of, once his lips took hers and he was lost in the subtly sweet scent of her hair and skin, was how much he needed her as well as loved her. Maybe he wouldn't stop... maybe he would learn what it was to feel the beautiful softness of her breasts against the palms of his hands; to find out how much pleasure he could bring her if he only could touch every part of her... feel how hot and wet he could make her...
His hand moved slowly from her face to the back of her neck to her shoulder, and he turned it so that the backs of his fingers gently, slowly trailed along her ribs and down until his hands were gently cupping her bottom, gathering her in against him. He nibbled her ear lobe and teasingly explored her ear with his tongue.
Sam gave another throaty murmur and he echoed it, unconsciously pressing her against the wall in an effort to get as close as they could be while still standing. She raised her chin as he caressingly kissed her neck, his arms pinning hers as he moulded himself against her, trying desperately to assuage his ache. As much as she appreciated how he controlled himself for her sake, this slipping of his restraint gave her a heady sense of power and desirability. Breathing hard as she felt him move his hips over hers, she felt terribly wanton, which was rather thrilling, but—to her surprise—she didn't feel the least bit ashamed.
The look in his lidded eyes was very tender as he paused before moving downward, his mouth open as he brushed her neck and collarbone and unpinned her brooch to part her dress and touch the upper curve of her breasts with his lips. He smiled softly as he stopped to admire her impassioned face when she moaned in abandon, her lips parted and her fingers clutching the back of his head. Christopher used his thumb to move aside the fabric of her brassiere and as his tongue slowly swirled about her nipple, Sam's legs went out on her.
He clutched her waist before she could fall and slowly helped her to the chair where he had been sitting before. He knelt beside her and took her hands in his, bent his brow to them, and tried to calm his breathing.
His voice was hoarse. "Sam, darling…" His eyes showed the strain he was under, but still shone with love. I respect you just as much as I desire you and I'm afraid if I don't leave right now I'll do something we both—" Sam moved as if to interrupt him, and he gently placed his fingertips upon her lips—"I'll do something I will regret for both of us. And that, I won't do." He passed his hand over his forehead and eyes.
Sam's passion was clamouring at her from every part of her body, but she forced herself to pay attention to the man she loved. As frustrating as it was, she knew that Christopher Foyle, honourable gentleman, was an important facet of the whole man. She desired him and he wanted her—of that she was sure—but they could wait until his respect for her could be satisfied along with their desire.
Sam tried not to sigh too dramatically. Her expression showed she clearly was not talking about the tea as she said with feigned concern, "I'm afraid the tea is getting cold; do let me pour it."
They smiled at each other as they sipped their tea and then bade each other goodnight with solicitous calm, cheered only in the knowledge that it was all a sham.
Andrew was so distracted during their lunch next day that his father and Sam became quite concerned. He had learned in their absence that his squadron mate Greville Woods had been badly burnt in the crash of the plane he was flying on a mission the night before. Not only was Andrew anxious for his friend, but he was severely shaken to know that it was his Spitfire that Woods had been flying. "Could just as well have been me," he told them tremulously, still in a kind of stupor. He said he had even visited the hospital that morning and seen Greville being treated there; seen that the burns were near his eyes, and learned that the doctors were not sure he would regain his sight.
"Didn't get to speak with him; they just let me look across the room at him. He couldn't see me." The young man's voice quaked; Foyle had never seen him so upset.
When his son told him later in the afternoon that he was going to the burn treatment hospital to see whether he could speak with Greville this time, Foyle hoped Andrew might find the young pilot's condition improved, so that he would be comforted. It was very nearly time for Andrew to return to the crucial duties that were a constant worry to his father.
Just before darkness fell, Sam kissed Christopher goodnight, drove the car to the station, and cycled home to her flat, hoping to get a good rest before the busy week ahead. Much to her shock she was greeted at her own doorstep by a disheveled Andrew, who told her in urgent tones that he had to see her.
"Shouldn't you—" She saw the frantic look in his eyes and softened. "You'd better come inside."
Once he was sitting numbly beside Merivale's fireplace, Sam brought him a spot of tea. "I wish I had some whisky or something, but it's all I've got."
He accepted the cup but only stared down at it.
"My landlady is a tolerant sort, but if she sees you here she'll think I'm deceiving your father," she chuckled nervously, hoping to jolly him out of his chilled withdrawal. "We're both for the high jump then."
The silence from Andrew was fraught.
"Don't you have to get back first thing tomorrow and—" she began.
"Sam." He looked her in the eyes. "I can't go back."
She stared at him in disbelief.
"What?" Sam wrung her hands. This is not like Andrew at all. "Why?"
"I can't. I don't care what happens to me."
She resorted to practicality. "But you must… they'll come looking for you!"
He bowed his dark head again.
"Andrew, what is it?"
"Oh, I'm so tired," he said, finally speaking to her instead of the teacup. He drew a long breath. "For weeks now… I don't sleep. I can't eat. I feel sick. And sometimes it's as if you… and Dad… and my friends… As if I don't even care about any of you. I know that's a horrible thing to say; I don't want it to be true. But it's as if you don't even exist for me."
"You're tired, that's all."
He fairly shouted at her. "I'm not just tired, Sam!"
His tone more subdued he confided, "When I saw Greville Woods… and the others in that place…"
"You don't need to think about them," Sam offered firmly, "because that's not going to happen to you—"
"It will happen to me. I know. He was in my plane, Sam. He flew my op." There was a tremor in Andrew's voice now. "It should have been me!"
Sam's face was full of sympathy, but she warned him firmly, "You can't stay here, Andrew." She gave a short, frustrated breath. "You've got to go back."
He only shook his head.
"They'll find you. You can't run away from them forever."
He began to weep, and with a voice distorted by crying, begged her, "Don't make me go back…"
"Oh, Andrew…" she whispered. She hastened to kneel beside him where he sat and put her arms around his shoulders as he shuddered with sobs and said again and again, "Don't make me go back."
The next morning was an exceedingly busy one for Foyle and Milner. In addition to the Melcent case they had to further investigate the murder of Gordon Drake and the mysterious goings-on at the burn hospital. Christopher quickly noticed Sam's somewhat troubled demeanor and her quietness, but when he asked if she was all right, she only nodded and mumbled vaguely that she felt under the weather, allowing him to assume that it was for female reasons and therefore not up for discussion. He tried not to add worry about her to the anxiety he was feeling about Andrew; his son had not returned home the previous evening, nor had he left him word that he would be returning to base early. Foyle could, however, recall one other instance in which Andrew had had to leave suddenly and write him afterward to explain why, so he hoped that was the situation this time.
At any rate there was so much to ponder about the multiple cases of the day that he could not let his mind dwell for long upon either of these personal worries, and of that he was glad.
When Foyle figured out that Mrs Roecastle the housekeeper had been responsible for the disturbances round the military hospital, including the theft of the medications, he used a ruse to bring her to confession, knowing that her loyalty to her longtime employer Sir Michael Waterford would prevent her from allowing his arrest for the crimes. Once the misguided woman was escorted back to the station, Christopher took a walk with Sir Michael, listening as he described why Drake had blackmailed him. It further linked Drake's death to Waterford's house, but also turned out to be a personal confession of Waterford's own desperation during the Battle of Ypres. Recalling his son's angst of the previous day, the policeman was thoughtful as Waterford told him how ashamed he had felt, all these years, about injuring himself in order to escape the horrors of the combat.
When the dispirited man told him he had lost his self-respect 25 years before, Foyle suggested that he think about working there in the burn hospital that once had been his home.
Seeming to think he was not worthy of their company, Sir Michael said shakily, "But these men are so brave." He sighed. "We call them 'The Few,' but who'd have thought this country could produce so many of them?"
Foyle spoke quietly. "My son's one of them."
"Then you're a very fortunate man."
When Foyle and the still-preoccupied Sam entered the station, Wing Commander Turner was there to meet them. Sam nervously saluted him as he asked the DCS if he might have a word, and they disappeared into his office. Just before the DCS shut the door, Sam heard Turner stating, "I shouldn't be here, Mr Foyle; it goes against every rule in the book."
Sam's stomach twisted into a knot as she watched them go. She could guess why the officer was there, and as far as she knew, Andrew was still holing up in her flat. At least Merivale was not present to ask questions about him, as she had left the Thursday before to visit her daughter and did not plan to return until Wednesday.
Samantha had convinced Andrew to lie down on the sofa, found him a blanket, and heartsick, left him there to cry himself to sleep. Before leaving for the station the following morning she had given him her paltry ration of breakfast except for one piece of toast, then encouraged him again to return to base while she was at work. Without responding to that request, he had made her promise not to tell his father where he was, and reluctantly, she had given her word.
Foyle had met Wing Commander Turner under tense circumstances once before, and he greatly respected the man's flinty protectiveness for his men. Turner explained to him that Andrew was absent without leave, but that as he had been gone less than 24 hours the Wing Commander had decided not to report his absence yet to the RAF police. He looked at Andrew's father, who had asked in a careful way what would happen if Andrew were found. Then, sounding more gentle than usual, Turner told Foyle that he believed there could be more sympathy—and wished there could be more rest—given to men who were suffering from shell shock or mental strain. Christopher was relieved to learn that the man was as understanding as he was vigilant.
"Well he's certainly not been himself recently… but I've not seen him since yesterday—late afternoon. I thought he had been called away early and that's why he didn't return last night."
Turner looked dejected, but his steeliness was back. "Well, in that case there's nothing I can do. He'll be charged with desertion."
Something clicked in Foyle's mind as the Wing Commander headed for his office door. "Umm…"
The commander turned to face him.
Foyle stood. "How long has he got?"
"I can give him until 3 o'clock this afternoon. No longer than that."
The DCS watched Turner walk down the corridor of the station, past the young woman who had been behaving so very strangely all day. He had realised all at once that there must be some connexion. He was quelling anger to think that she had not told him about this, but he should hear her out. However, as soon as she looked his way he could see the uneasiness and guilt in her expression.
All he had to do was cock an eyebrow, and she knew that he knew everything.
