Up with the lark, to bed with a wren

Ch. 10

I can't believe that this story is getting to be so long. Thank you for your patience, dear readers, and for your comments.

I don't own the characters, etc.

This is a Sam/Foyle pairing. Some mature conversation takes place in this episode. Please don't read further if you don't like this pairing.

~Emma

Sam continued to look exhausted in the days that followed, surprising Foyle and even Roberts with her seeming disregard for her appearance. He and Milner were making good progress on several fronts: the German spy who was washed ashore, the missing journalist, Hunter's murder. It was not unusual for them to solve a case, but rarely did they come across such a complicated, misleading set of cases all at once. It kept Foyle busy, but not so busy that he did not see the change in Sam's appearance.

Sam almost felt sorry for the prisoners that had to spend the night in the station, so hard and lumpy was the mattress on the cell cot. She had spent the last few nights twisting and turning for hours, trying to find a comfortable position, before admitting that there was none to be found.

When she came into Foyle's office one morning with her hair in disarray and her uniform wrinkled, he could not help but comment on the change.

"My, you're looking—tired? Are you not sleeping?" He worried that she was having nightmares about the bombing; she wouldn't be the first person to have them. And it would be just like Sam to keep a stiff upper lip and not mention it.

Sam patted her forehead, brushing her hair away from her eyes.

"I'm not sleeping a great deal," she admitted. "I've got a rather hard bed."

"Are you all right to drive?" he asked, concerned.

"Absolutely," she said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"Sit down," he said. "I've just got to finish typing this."

"What is it?" she asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down to face him at his desk.

"An arrest report," he explained. They chatted about the key-ring that Foyle had found in Hunter's pocket—Sam identified it as part of a car's gear mesh system—and Foyle pondered a possible connection between Hunter and Howard Paige. He wanted more time to think about it, but Sam was there before him, looking adorable with her tousled hair, and he could not resist the chance to engage her in a brief chat.

"Everything all right, Sam?" he asked, still typing.

"Mmm," she said. Despite her fatigue, she had seemed more relaxed around him, and he had noticed how excited she had been to give him information about the key-ring. She is irrepressible, Foyle thought. Nothing can keep Sam down for long.

"You found a more permanent place to live?" he asked.

"It's being worked out," she said, rather cryptically.

"My offer still stands," he said. Sam blushed. "You do know which offer I mean, don't you?" he inquired. "You can stay with me if there's trouble with you being at your friend's house."

"It's not that," she protested. "It's just—I don't know—that just seems like rather too much right now, if you understand what I mean." Despite himself, Foyle felt hurt.

"No, Sam. What do you mean?" She blushed again, wringing her hands.

"Well, we haven't talked yet about—you know—us—since I left my flat."

He nodded. "Is that what has been troubling you?" he asked.

"Yes. I want to know—"

Just then, Milner's form appeared in the doorway.

"Ready with that report, Mr. Foyle?" he asked jovially. Foyle looked up from the desk, surprised to see his sergeant.

"Report?" He sounded confused. "Oh, right, give me one minute. Just finishing it. Sam, do see if you can scrounge up some biscuits for later."

"Yes, Sir," she said, rising to leave.

The next night, after writing his report on Howard Paige—two separate reports, actually, one for now, one for after the war—Foyle took a stroll through the station house. He sometimes did this, when he had to work late, just to make sure that everything was in its place. To his surprise, he spotted a light shining from under one of the jail cells, yet Rivers had not mentioned anything to him about keeping a prisoner there just then. He must have forgotten to tell me, with the excitement of solving Hunter's murder and going after Paige today, Foyle reasoned.

He walked over to the cell. The door was open—not a prisoner, then—and Foyle got quite a shock when he saw Samantha Stewart calmly lying on the cot, reading a book.

"Sam?" he said, coming in. Sam pulled her legs over the bed to sit up. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, it's a long story really," she started. "You'd be amazed at how many hotels and guesthouses are full. I've spoken to the billeting officer and although I should take priority, there just isn't anything." Foyle was flabbergasted. So, she had been staying here, when she could so easily have stayed with me! He thought to himself.

"So, you haven't found anywhere else to live?" he asked.

She shook her head. "The long and short of it is, I've ended up here."

"You can't sleep here," he insisted. She shook her head.

"It's not so bad," she said. "Though the mattress is a bit—hard. It's not really a mattress. It's more a sort of plank."

"Oh, for God's sake, really," Foyle said. "We have been through this before." He looked away from her. "Look, I've said it before and I'll say it again: come stay with me. If it doesn't bother you, it doesn't bother me. You can use the back room at my house. Andrew isn't there. Just until you get yourself sorted out—if you like."

"Oh!" Sam said. "I'm sorry, I thought—I thought you wanted me to stay with you—in your b—I mean—Oh, I'm so sorry. I misunderstood completely." She broke off suddenly.

"What?" He exclaimed, finally understanding why she had refused his previous invitations. "You thought I'd ask you to stay in my room, with me?" he asked, shocked.

Sam nodded sheepishly.

"What kind of man do you think I am?" he asked, heatedly. "No, no, no, Miss Stewart, as long as you are Miss Stewart, you will sleep—and I mean sleep, dream, snooze, what-have-you—in your own room." He smiled at her. "No one has stayed in the back room for ages, but I promise you there will be clean sheets. And the mattress is much softer than the board you've been lying on." He winked at her. "Would you like to?" he asked, expectantly.

"Could I, Sir? Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes. Just—do me a favor. I know I don't need to ask, but I'll say it anyway—don't mention this to any of the others. They really wouldn't approve, you know."

"No," Sam said, solemnly. "I can be very discreet."

"Good," Foyle said. "Come on." She packed her suitcase quickly and he carried it for her down the hall, out to the Wolseley. Sam was almost beside herself with excitement and relief. "One more thing, Sam."

"Yes?"

"Please stop calling me 'Sir' when we're off duty. You can call me 'Christopher' or just plain 'Foyle,' if you like." He put his hand on her shoulder, emphasizing the intimacy between the two of them.

"I like 'Foyle' best," she said. "It suits you."

Sam offered to cook for both of them that night. She readily found the ingredients for coq au vin in Foyle's kitchen, and set about preparing the dish while he went to tidy up the back room.

Part of her felt like she was repeating her stay with Milner all over again—the hush-hushness of it all, the offer to make the same dish, the fear that someone (Andrew, this time), might come back and find them out. But whereas preparing a meal with Milner had felt like they were mess-hall chums, Sam couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if she cooked dinner for Foyle regularly. The state of his kitchen was appalling—dust on some of the glasses, stale bread in the pantry, milk that was about to turn—and the man clearly needed someone to take care of him. She could not fathom why he had not hired a housekeeper before now. How did he keep his suits so immaculately clean and pressed, then? Perhaps he sent them out.

Sam enjoyed her musings about Foyle's home life. Every object she came across in his house told her something about him, from the paintings on his wall to the brand of whisky he preferred. Setting herself up in his kitchen, Sam felt closer to him than she had felt in a long time. It was a sign that he trusted her, to let her come into his house and take charge of the meal without supervision.

It wasn't that Sam did not like the domestic arts, it was just that there had always been so many more interesting things to learn when she was growing up, like how to milk a cow or identify a birdsong. And despite what she had told Andrew about not wanting to knit balaclavas for His Majesty's Forces, Sam was actually quite the hand at needlework. But while she loved to eat, she generally preferred that someone else did the cooking.

In the present circumstances, however, Sam grew warm thinking of what it meant to cook for him, for Foyle. The surest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, the old saying went. Cooking for a man was an intimate proposition, there was no doubt about it. She had avoided thinking about that when she had stayed with Milner, but there, someone else had cleared ruled the kitchen. In Foyle's case, however, the absence of a regular cook was only too apparent.

Sam wondered what else he was missing in his life. Someone to take care of him in other ways, too? Someone to listen to him when he was frustrated about the direction a case was going—or not going. Someone to admire the fish that he caught, to know just how to grill them, with just the right amount of lemon and salt. Someone to put flowers on his dresser, to cheer him with a funny story, to get him out of Hastings on holiday. Sam hoped that she could be this person. The only aspect that troubled her was that, usually, this kind of person took the guise of a spouse.

As she was thinking about this, Foyle came into the kitchen to check on her progress.

"Finding everything you need?" he asked. Sam made a face. "What is it?"

"You don't cook much, do you?" she asked.

"No-o-o," he drawled. "Why?"

"When was the last time you bought milk and bread?"

"Hmmm…last week?" He grinned at her.

"Would you mind awfully if I went to the grocer's tomorrow and picked up a few things? We could combine our ration tickets. It would be easier that way."

To himself, Foyle wondered how long she was planning to stay. He didn't want her to leave right away, but on the other hand, it wouldn't do for her to pay him an extended visit. He thought better of saying anything and simply nodded to her. Sam turned back to the stovetop, where the chicken was simmering away. At least there was wine in Foyle's cupboard, so this coq was complete.

Foyle watched her examine the pot of chicken, turning over each piece so that it would cook evenly. In the absence of a proper apron, she had tied a large dishtowel around her waist, protecting her uniform. She concentrated intensely on the work at hand, and Foyle found her fascinating to watch, just as he enjoyed watching her drive. There in his kitchen, however, she was more relaxed than he had seen her in the Wolseley. Could it be, he wondered, that they were back to the way they had been? Could Sam actually be enjoying herself here with him? He certainly hoped so.

Sam turned and caught him staring at her.

"Like what you see?" she asked, playfully.

He gaped at her. Kissing her was foremost on his mind but he feared her reaction, given the curt words that she had directed at him in the last few days.

"Very much," he said, somewhat reserved with his enthusiasm.

"Want to try it?" she asked. He was confused for a moment; then he understood that she was referring to the dish.

"Yes, please," he said, coming closer to her. She scooped out some broth and held the wooden spoon up to his lips. He raised an eyebrow at her as he took a sip. A bit of broth dribbled down his chin and Sam raised her dishtowel to dab at it.

"Sorry, clumsy me," she said apologetically, wiping his face.

It was an intimate gesture, one that signaled her acceptance of him and the place that he was coming to occupy in her life. Foyle grasped her hand before she could move it away. He felt a physical spark pass between the two of them and Sam instinctively pulled back from the shock. But she kept looking at him, smiling brightly, inviting him to come closer. He stared at her, transfixed. She stepped forward and planted a lingering kiss on his lips, then pulled away quickly and appeared to concentrate intensely on the dish at hand. Foyle was surprised and touched by her gesture.

"Thank you," Foyle said softly, shutting his eyes momentarily.

"You're welcome," Sam responded, still looking at the stove.

"Care to tell me why… ?"

"Nope," she said. "We'll talk later. The pot has to cook for a while longer yet. I thought I might freshen up a bit, before supper?" Foyle nodded.

"I'll show you your room and where the bathroom is," he said. She untied the dishtowel and left it on the rack, following him through the sitting room and into the back of his house. She had never been there before, but she had noticed the corridor that led away from the main room. At the end, there was a small bedroom, sparsely but neatly furnished. A powder room was immediately off of the bedroom.

Foyle showed her where he had stored her things and then cleared his throat. "I suppose you'll want to take a short bath before dinner," he said.

"Oh, rather!" she exclaimed. "I feel as if I'd been wearing this uniform for days." Which, in fact, she had been.

"The bath is upstairs," he said. There was no way to avoid sharing his bathroom with her: it contained the only bathtub in the house. "Come, I'll show you." She followed him out and up the stairs, catching a glimpse of what she assumed was his bedroom before he led her to the main bath.

"There are towels here," he said in a business-like manner, opening a small cupboard. "And soap here. Use whatever you like."

"Thank you," she said.

"Do you want to bathe now?" he asked. "The faucet is a big tricky to make work, so if you want to clean up now, I'll get it started for you."

"Yes, please," Sam said. He plugged the drain and turned on the tap, testing the water's temperature with his hand.

"Now, I'll leave you to it," he said. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

"Thank you," she said. The idea that she could possibly need him to take a bath struck her as a bit absurd. "I'll come down with you. I need to get my clothes."

"Oh, of course," he said. He had forgotten that she would need to change for dinner in the bathroom. Suddenly an image arose in his mind of what Sam would look like if she had come downstairs straight from the bath, wet and rosy with the heat, wrapped in only a towel. He shook his head to dispel the image. It would be a long night if he didn't keep a calm head on his shoulders. He looked at Sam to see if she had noticed his distraction. She had turned to go downstairs and, this time, it was his time to follow her.

While Sam bathed, Foyle sat in his armchair, trying to read the day's paper. His concentration was poor—his mind kept wandering back to Sam and that damn towel!—and he was relieved when he at last heard the bathroom door open and her footsteps sounded on the stairs. Foyle stood up when she entered the room.

Sam had changed to a green housedress that set off her gold hair to great effect. She had not had time to do more than pat her hair dry, but Foyle was still stunned at the effect that the change of clothes had on her. It had been several months since he had seen his driver out of uniform, and while he found her attractive even in beige and khaki, he had to admit that the dress suited her much better. The close-fitting wartime style showed off her slender waist and her fine arms.

"Thank you," she said. "I feel much better. And now I'm starving! The chicken smells divine. Shall we eat?" She flashed him a brilliant smile, amused that he couldn't stop looking at her.

"Uh—yes?" he stammered. She walked to the kitchen and he followed her again.

"Where is your cutlery?" she asked, opening first one drawer, then another. He reached down to open a lower cupboard, showing her where he kept the knives and forks.

"Not where you'd expect to find them," he explained. "Why don't I set the table, while you serve the food?"

"Excellent," she answered, turning to the stove. He handed her a plate and she placed a few pieces of chicken and some vegetables on it, then gave it back to him to set on the table. When he returned, he caught her standing on her tiptoes, looking in another of the cupboards for the glasses. Her back was turned to him and he could see the lines of her brassiere through the thin fabric as she strained to reach a high shelf.

Foyle stepped swiftly forward, putting his hands on either side of her waist, pulling her to flat feet again. She gasped in surprise. He reached above her to get the glasses, pressing himself against her body as he did so. Placing the glasses on the sideboard, he returned his hands to her hips and leaned forward to kiss the nape of her neck. Sam gasped as his lips touched her and she arched her head back, giving him access to the rest of her neck. Her damp hair brushed against his face and he thought, again, of what she must have looked like just risen from her bath. He kissed her under her left ear before turning her in his arms to face him squarely. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked straight at him, anticipating his kiss.

When his lips met hers she moaned into his mouth, shifting her body slightly to get closer to him. He wrapped her more tightly in his arms as he continued to kiss her, first quickly and lightly, then harder and more insistently. His breathing grew shallower as he felt, not for the first time with her, an excitement in his groin. He felt lust towards her, there was no denying that, but he felt something else, as well. Love? Adoration? Her presence was so sweet to him, almost unbearably so. She tasted like honey and almonds and fresh grass.

It moved Foyle to distraction to feel her respond to his body in return. He noticed every small alteration in her breathing, every noise she emitted, every glance she gave him, every moment when she was so overcome that she had to shut her eyes. It had been years since Foyle had enjoyed a kiss so much, and he wondered if it had to do with her relative innocence. It was delightful to be showing her new things about herself, as was evident from her first startled reaction when he kissed the back of her neck. Foyle moved to kiss her chin, then traveled down her neck with his mouth, kissing the hollow where her collarbones met. She took his head in her hands, as if holding on to him for balance, as he darted his tongue into that slight impression at the base of her neck.

For Sam, kissing Foyle was both a familiar and not-so-familiar sensation. She had thought again and again, in the last week, about the times when they had already kissed, replaying them in her mind until the memories were worn shiny with use. But the memories could not do the reality justice. There in Foyle's kitchen, Sam understood that there was no substitute for the very real man who held her in his arms. His kisses were nothing like the kisses that she had shared with other men, who had either bored her or overwhelmed her with their urgency. Foyle, in contrast, seemed content to take his time exploring her body, asking nothing from her except the satisfaction of seeing her respond to him. And respond she did! She couldn't help the sounds that escaped her mouth, nor the trembling in her knees that made her grasp desperately at his hair as he kissed her neck.

Foyle drew his mouth lower, descending her upper chest with his lips until he came to the first, open buttonhole of her dress. She had dressed quickly after the bath and had neglected to close the top button. He delved through the opening collar and kissed the spot where her breasts came together. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the lines of her slip and her brassiere, in fawn-coloured fabric. Sam held her breath, waiting for him to continue, hoping he would not stop just then.

But suddenly Foyle stood upright and pressed his lips to her own again. She felt a bead of perspiration form under each of her arms; he could smell her faint, musky scent as he continued to kiss her, again and again, moving his tongue in and out of her mouth until she murmured, "Foyle," softly and expectantly.

"Yes?" he asked, speaking for the first time since he had returned to the room.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take," she said, leaning her forehead against his. "I'm very…hungry." The way she said this last word suggested that she had more than one kind of appetite just then.

Foyle pulled back to look in her face.

"Sam—" he started, surprised by the implication of her words. "I didn't mean—"

"Shhh," she said, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't apologize for this. I am not sorry for anything."

"I—what I meant to say was—I'm sorr—"

She cut him off again. "What did I say? No apologies. No offence taken, at least on my end."

"None here either," he joked. He was still holding her waist and he began to stroke her ribs, gently, with his fingers. "But I will have to apologize very soon indeed if we don't sit down to dinner right now."

"Let's eat, then," Sam said, pulling away from him. "Did you finish setting the table?"

"Yes," he told her. "Not much to do."

"Oh, the coq au vin will be a bit cold," she said. "Shall we put it back on the stovetop?"

"No," he said. "I don't mind." He smiled at her, still enchanted by their kisses and her presence in his kitchen. The green dress was an amazing find, he thought. I wonder how she managed to get the fabric, with all the rationing. He had rarely seen a frock that so perfectly suited its wearer. He hoped that she had more dresses like it.

"I don't mind either," Sam said, moving into the dining room.

They sat facing each other, at the end of a long table that might easily have seated ten people. Sam wondered on what occasions Foyle would use such a table, then reflected that he probably had done so when his wife was still alive. It was a ridiculously large table for just one person, but Foyle rarely ate there when he was alone, preferring the small corner table in the kitchen.

They each ate slowly, engrossed in each other's company, barely noticing the food they were eating. Foyle complimented Sam on her cooking, of course, but he had thoughts only for her person. In the dim light of the room, with the glow of sunset slanting through the windows, she was more radiant than ever, a picture in gold and green. He noticed how her brown eyes had speckles of yellow in them, and he saw for the first time the birthmark on her right ear.

Sam was watching Foyle, too, to see how he might respond to her after their passionate encounter in the kitchen. As he had done during their dinner in Eastborne, she observed that he could hardly take his eyes off her.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, with mock concern.

"Yes—why?" he enquired.

"Because you haven't stopped staring at me since we sat down to eat," she chided. "You can calm down, I'm not going anywhere—at least not yet." She smiled up at him. He smiled back and reached for her hand across the table.

"I didn't know how much this would mean to me, your coming here to stay with me," he told her. What he didn't say was that, ever since his wife's death, the only other woman who had occupied his kitchen was the near-elderly woman who came on the weekends to clean.

"Hmm?" She gave him an inquisitive look that said Care to tell me any more lovely things?

"Yes, it's quite—comfortable… having you around."

Comfortable? She thought to herself. What am I, his housekeeper?

"Really?" she said, raising her eyebrow.

"Yes," he said, hoping that he could explain what he meant more graciously. "I like your company, you know." He looked up at her. "And not just behind the wheel."

"Thank you," she said, not quite sure of where he was going with this train of thought. "And I like yours, as well." She took another bite of food, then pushed around a potato on her plate.

"But Sam, I really don't think you should stay here long," he said.

She looked up, disappointed.

"I certainly wasn't planning on decamping here permanently!" she exclaimed. "I've been calling the billeting office every day as is, and I don't intend to stop now."

"No, of course you don't," he agreed. "What I meant was… I think it would be best—for you—if we made this arrangement a temporary one." What he wanted to say, but didn't dare voice, was that he felt that it would be all too easy for him to get used to Sam's presence in every area of his life. And that it was a step he had never intended them to arrive at so very early in their courtship.

"Are you saying that my moral reputation might be at stake?" Sam asked, trying to sound light-hearted. He looked up in alarm, about to deny this. "No, no," she reassured him. "I am quite aware that you are no threat to me. What I am more concerned about is my own reaction to you."

He raised an eyebrow, curious to see what she would say next.

"Can't you tell, Foyle?" she continued. "How much—how very much I like—" His jaw grew slack in amazement. "—but no, you couldn't know—or could you?" She waited for him to answer, but he let her continue. "You are an observant man," she noted. "Surely you can tell that some of this is new to me. Or, at the least, the feelings are new." She sighed and looked at her plate. "Tell me, does it ever go away?"

"What?" he asked, scarcely breathing in anticipation of what she might say next.

"The longing," she said. "The wishing that I could be with you, at all times. The not caring about what other people say. The need that I feel, when you touch me." She blushed.

A shiver passed through him upon hearing her confession of longing. But he brushed his thoughts aside to concentrate on something else that she had said.

"You should care about what people say, Sam," he reminded her.

"Why?" she asked. "Hasn't the war changed everything?"

"Not everything," he said. "Or we neither of us would be working just now. It is our duty to maintain order in a time of war."

"Must every law be maintained?" she asked, pointedly.

"I'm afraid so, Sam," he said, rather dismally. "We can't have people profiting off the war, now can we?"

"Even the laws that aren't really laws?" she asked. "Do we have to uphold those, as well? The laws that aren't really on the books?"

He paused, not sure how to answer her. His mouth puckered in contemplation as he waited for her to continue.

"What do you mean, Sam?" he asked, finally, when it was apparent that she wasn't going to say any more.

"I mean—the laws that say that I shouldn't be here with you, as an unmarried woman." He paused, again not sure how to answer her.

"What do you think, Sam?" he asked, turning the question back to her.

"I think that a lot of those laws are just rubbish. They are just there to keep people from enjoying themselves." She looked at him roguishly.

Up went the eyebrow again. He waited for her to explain herself. When she didn't, he answered her. "Is that the only thing they are for, Samantha?" he asked. "I can think of a few good reasons why such laws exist." She waited. "Are there any unmarried women of your acquaintance who have got pregnant?" he asked.

"No—yes," she corrected herself. "Betsy Peters. She went away the last year of secondary school. Everyone knew that her boy had given her one too many but we all went along and pretended that she had gone to visit her aunt in Yorkshire, as her parents said."

"And then what happened?" he asked her.

"She came back. With a flat stomach and no baby."

"What happened to the child?" he asked.

"We never knew. An orphanage, I suppose."

"Hmmm," he said. "And your friend?"

"She moved to Canada after we left school. Went to join a cousin there on some farm or something. Saskatchewan, I think."

"And why do you think she had to move so far away?" he asked her.

She was starting to become annoyed. "Because she wanted another chance, I would guess. To start over."

"Exactly," he said, smugly. "That's why these laws exist. So that young women don't have to choose between their children and their reputation. So that men will marry women instead of leaving them pregnant and penniless. See?" He raised both eyebrows and looked at her sternly.

"What are you suggesting?" she asked. "That Betsy's boy should have married her?"

"Yes," he said. "That would have been the honourable thing to do."

"But she didn't love him," Sam said. "He was cruel to her…he lied and he cheated."

"All the more reason for her to have resisted him in the first place," Foyle mumbled.

Sam looked dejected.

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe she did make a mistake, choosing him. But he should have been more careful. There was no reason for her to end up pregnant. For heaven's sake, there are methods—" She pronounced this last word with great significance.

"It doesn't matter, Sam," he said. "She wouldn't have been a virgin any longer."

"With all due respect," she started, "do you really think that virginity means that much anymore? I mean, we're at war. Surely there are plenty of things that are more important than what a girl puts between her legs."

Foyle almost snorted.

"Some might say that that is the most important thing of all," he said, thinking of Freud. "It's very powerful," he added.

"I wouldn't know," she said, almost bitterly.

Foyle grew quiet. He wasn't sure if he should tell her what he really thought, or what he wanted her to believe.

He and Rosalind had had relations before they were married, and he had known other women since her death, but he had been faithful to his wife as long as she was alive. Still, Foyle felt like a hypocrite speaking with Sam, laying down the moral code as if he were the finest exemplar of celibacy and faithfulness on the southern coast. But he didn't want Sam to think that he wished her to behave otherwise, in case she doubted his motives towards her.

"But if it is the most important thing of all—" Sam continued.

"If what is?" Foyle asked, a bit confused.

"Sex," she said, mischievously. There—she had said it at last! She pressed on heedlessly. "If it is the most important thing of all, then why doesn't anyone talk about it? Why do we pretend that babies are brought by a stork when a couple is married? And why do we forget that women don't need to have children, in the first place?"

"How do you know about that?" Foyle asked her. "You mentioned 'methods'."

"I may be young," Sam countered, "but I'm not a child." She glared at him.

"I am confused about something else," Foyle said. "You told me that you thought at first that I had invited you here because I wanted you to sleep in my bed. And apparently you didn't like this idea overmuch at the time. So now I'm wondering, Samantha, just why you are bringing up all this talk of 'methods' and pregnancy with me just now."

Damn, she thought. Why does he have to turn every conversation into an investigation?

"You know why," she answered in turn.

"Do I?" he asked.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reply.

"Do you know why a man wants his wife to be a virgin, Samantha?" he asked point-blank.

"I think you are about to tell me," she responded.

"Better not," he said. "Maybe we should leave you with at least some mystery surrounding sex, eh, Sam?" This was a low tactic, and he knew it, to point out her lack of experience when she was clearly eager to learn more. The fact that Foyle was the one who had put a stop to things did not make him feel any better about himself.

Privately, Foyle also thought that the hymen garnered an inordinate amount of attention for such a small flap of tissue. Rosalind hadn't been a virgin when they had met, and nor had Foyle, but the first time they were together had felt as if both of them had discovered sex and love anew. No, virginity itself was not what was important, so much as the feelings that passed between a man and a woman when they came together for the first time. There should be desire and respect, tenderness and joy, and most of all, exhilaration in the newness of another's body; love might come later. Foyle could not understand why he believed these things in principle but couldn't countenance them in Sam's case. Was it because she was so young, that he wanted to protect her from men, even if the man happened to be himself? Was it because he still feared coming across as a randy old billy goat? Was it because of his compunctions at starting to see an employee outside of work? He could not put a finger on why he felt that he must keep things on the straight and narrow with Sam.

For her part, Sam scowled at him. Instead of telling him what was on her mind, she stood and began to clear the plates away.

"I'll wash, you dry," she proposed. Foyle stood and helped her gather the glasses. They went into the kitchen together to clean up. He kept a physical distance from Sam as she stood at the sink, scrubbing away at the mess that they had created. Every so often she would hand him a clean dish and he would dry it neatly before putting it in the cupboard where it belonged. He was careful not to reach over Sam's shoulder, not wanting to suggest that he was looking for anything further from her.

He should have been contented with what she had already given him, he reminded himself. It was not every day that he entertained such an alluring woman in his own home, sharing his kitchen and even his bathroom with her. And those kisses! Her lovely, firm body, pliant under his touch! He had not felt this enchanted by a woman since he had first started to walk out with Rosalind. And if Sam was not quite what he had expected—if she was a little bolder than he had believed—well, he admired her the more for it, though he would not tell her that.

Similarly, he swore that he would never tell Sam just how much her suggestion of "methods" had given rise to unorthodox images of himself and his driver, stripped of their clothing, enjoying the greatest pleasures that their bodies could give them—with none of the consequences.

He had not answered her other question, when she had asked whether the feeling of longing ever went away. How could he tell her that, at 49 years old, he felt as passionate as he ever had in his twenties, but that his desire was now tempered by judgment? And how could he ever explain that, in marriage, his desire may have waned somewhat over the years, but his regard for her had continued to grow, so that, even now, thinking about Rosalind made his chest grow tight with love? These were things about sex that Sam would have to learn herself, from her own experiences. He could try to explain them but they would not mean much until she lived through them. From what he could tell of women his own age, their desire did not diminish either; if anything, it grew even stronger as they matured.

Foyle invited Sam to join him in the study when they had finished tidying up. He had noticed the book she was reading at the station, and suggested that they spend a little time reading before going to bed. Sam declined his invitation, saying that she preferred to go to sleep. He could tell from the expression on her face that she was tired, the several nights of sleeplessness having caught up to her.

Sam bid him a casual "good-night," turning quickly towards her own room before he could offer her a nighttime kiss. He felt his heart sink in disappointment as he watched her walk down the corridor, away from him. But part of him scolded himself for expecting anything more of her that night. He had tried to make it clear to Sam—and, most of all, to himself—that he was not planning to seduce her. But at the rate things are going, he thought, either she'll seduce me first—or decide to camp out at the billeting office.