Disclaimer: Foyle's War was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement intended.
UXB Chapter 13
At Steep Lane they got out, stood admiring the car awhile, and then the prospect of going into the privacy of his house together began to dawn upon them, heightening their awareness of each other. They exchanged alternating covert nervous glances.
On the steps, as she walked up with him, Sam saw he was having more difficulty, using the handrail, leading with his right leg, then bringing the cane and the left foot up onto the step. She said sympathetically, a little apologetically,
"A - a re-injury can be worse than the initial one. Perhaps we've rather... overdone it, today, Christopher."
"Well, only just. But worth it. A very good result. ...I'll rest the knee tomorrow." He smiled gamely and handed her his keys.
Once inside the door, Sam shifted her suitcase out of the way, helped him with his coat, divested herself of her own, then offered to make a pot of tea. She went through to put the kettle on, heard some quiet movement from the dining room as she set out the cups on a tray and then filled the teapot with boiling water. Sam turned to see him standing in the doorway, watching her thoughtfully. He hadn't removed his suit jacket, hadn't even loosened his tie.
She went to him, eyes alight with affectionate concern, and kissed him on the cheek,
"You should be resting. Shall I make a cold compress for your knee...?"
He took her hand, ignoring her offer,
"Let's... er, just have a little talk, shall we?" And tilted his head towards the sitting room.
Sam felt a tremor of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.
"Oh. Yes. About...us?"
"Hmm."
"Shall I... bring the tea...?" She half-turned and took a step back.
But he shook his head slightly and drew her with him through the doorway.
Settling on the settee near him, she willed herself into calm composure, smoothed her skirt, touched a hand to her loose, softly curling hair.
Foyle laid his cane on the floor beside him, turned to Samantha with a serious expression, and took a moment to study her face - the 'blooming' quality of her skin, the brightness of her eyes, though now shaded just a little by apprehension as she gazed attentively at him.
He smiled to reassure her, his right hand holding her left, massaging her fingers with his thumb, then he grew almost solemn, and began a deliberative, quiet and apparently well-thought-out monologue,
"Samantha, there are many arguments against a pair like us... mmarrying, but I won't insult your intelligence by listing them. I'd imagine you've already run through them all in your own mind. I've...come to the conclusion that those arguments no longer matter...to me."
He looked into her eyes,
"I love you. Have... for a long time, Sam. And... I've a feeling you might...care for me." He made a considering moue as though he found this unlikely, flashed an affectionate smile, then continued,
"Before I...ask you to make me any promises, want to mention ...couple of things. First, if your father and mother are adamantly against your marrying me, and if we can't change their minds, then... I will accept that. I don't want to estrange you from your family. ...Would hope that we could remain friends."
Foyle was relieved, and a little surprised, that Samantha hadn't interrupted him thus far, though he could see her breathing was elevated, her eyes were brimming with emotion.
"Secondly, ...and it's an extremely sensitive...and difficult thing to discuss, but, em... If it should...be the case that you are, now, ...pregnant, then, whether we marry or not, I will see that you and the child are well taken care of. Believe Adam's parents have a right to know if they have a grandchild. And I will understand if that changes the nature… the closeness...of your connection to them.
"For these reasons," he squeezed her hand, "- as much as I'd dearly like to ask you a certain question this very minute, Samantha - ...I feel that...we must have answers to those two questions first. So, em...,"
He fished a small, deep-purple velvet-covered jeweler's box out of his jacket pocket, and placed it carefully on the low table in front of them,
"...Like you to know that I'm...anxiously awaiting that information." He looked up into her eyes, and broke into a tender, hopeful smile.
Sam remained speechless, having watched his face earnestly as he'd spoken to her, having shut her eyes and let her tears overflow at the suggestion of a grandchild for the Wainwrights, and then had gasped and brought a hand up to her mouth when he'd produced the small box.
She felt everything he'd said was so reasonable, so correct, and so loving that she could not add any remark of her own. Taking in a deep breath, she nodded several times, and said quietly,
"I agree."
Foyle, again, was surprised. He'd been prepared for her to argue some of the points. Biting his lower lip, he found he wasn't sure, just at that moment, what their next step would be.
Sam moved to hold his hand in both of hers, head bowed, and answered,
"I don't think I'm pregnant, but we must be sure. I'll make an appointment in the morning with the doctor I used to see here. Even so, I suppose we must wait a decent interval...before marr-..." Sam's brows furrowed, as she was overcome with a kind of remorse.
Foyle gathered her close under his right arm, settled her head against his shoulder,
"Been a very difficult year for you, Sam, and...I'm sorry if I was the cause of any - or all - of your sorrows."
"You have nothing to apologise for. I'd say, 'c'est la guerre,' except - well, the War was over." She looked up into his face,
"It's just...Life, really, isn't it? You never know what it will bring."
"Well, that's very generous of you. I do regret...ssome of my decisions, a year ago. W-want you to know that, Sam."
He pressed his lips to her forehead, then, seeming to relax a little after his speech, his apology and her acceptance, sat back with her cheek resting on his shoulder. He loosened his tie and shirt collar, and gingerly straightened his injured leg to ease the discomfort,
"And... I'm sorry I wasn't able to attend the funeral. How did you manage?"
"Oh. Well..." She traced a finger around a button on his waistcoat,
"Mother and Father were there; the Wainwrights - they're fine, good people; I feel I know them better, now. And Andrew stuck by me - he was a brick, so helpful. Brookie and Paul - it was very kind of them to come. Glenvil Harris, Mr. Roper - the Cabinet Minister, others from the Party. ...There were several people who said they'd worked with Adam during the War. ...And Gloria and a few other girls from the research department. Oh- Mr. Valentine was there."
"Arthur?" He furrowed his brow at the news.
"Yes. And he wanted you to know that he'd concluded the Strasser case: he'd called in the Americans."
"Hardly the proper place to discuss it, but I'm pleased to hear it. ...Why did he tell you?"
"Assumed I'd be seeing you, I suppose. Well, actually, he said it to Andrew and me together, perhaps so that either of us could pass it on to you."
"Hmm."
"Father asked after you. He was very sorry to learn that you'd been hurt in the...explosion. He wondered... why you'd been there, actually."
Then she asked, puzzled,
"Why, exactly, were you there, Christopher?"
"Well," he sighed unhappily, "Sam, it was simply to avoid a car chase through London. Adam was waiting outside the office. He wanted to know where you were. I wasn't about to tell him. He...perhaps thought he'd follow me in a cab to you, but... I... drove to your house."
"Oh, ...god."
She sat up, distressed,
"If I'd telephoned him, none of this-." She rubbed her fingertips on her temple.
"Sam, you mustn't...second-guess. We can't change what's happened."
"No. I know."
She turned to look at him for a long moment, her expression transitioning from pained remorse through sorrow to regretful acceptance. She reached for the comfort and reassurance of his hand, and whispered,
"I should have waited for you. It was only a year..."
Foyle sat forward, caressed her cheek with his left hand and leant towards her for a kiss - chastely, at first, then, sensing her yielding, yearning response, more exploratively; his fingers glided softly to her throat and around to the nape of her neck. Sam put her arms around him under his suit jacket and leant back, drawing him with her until she half-reclined, invitingly, against the cushioned armrest of the sofa.
With his right hand braced on the backrest, he regrouped, deftly shifted position around her knees, so that she was lying almost straight and he was perched on the edge of the seat beside her. His kisses became more insistent, his lips parting and seeking to open hers as their breathing quickened. Sam welcomed his invasion, collaborated with the thrill of his domination, sighing her encouragement.
Then he stopped, retreated, withdrew his forces.
"...Sam, darling. Sorry. This won't do." Speaking in a constricted, husky voice.
Confused, with an effort she re-focussed her sensually befogged eyes. Then saw by the strain on his face that he was in physical pain.
"The damned leg -. Could we, perhaps -?"
"Oh! Gosh. Sorry. Let me - just -."
She attempted to sit up, scooting back, folding her skirted legs and then awkwardly unfolding them on her side of him, until she was again in a sitting position, feet on the floor.
"How shall we, um-? If I-." She bit her bottom lip.
"Come here, my darling girl…" He drew her towards him, manfully ignoring the sharp ache in his knee, intent on regaining his objective.
They resumed in the reverse position, he reclining and she leaning over him, but the breadth and depth of his upper body made the connection difficult. He had to lift his head off the armrest. Sam wondered if she might lie beside him, but worried his leg would be bothered. She shifted further up the narrow, inadequate settee, bending her body so she could reach him and he could rest his head as they kissed. She dared to run her fingers over his chest, and began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, seeking closer contact.
After only a few moments of renewed engagement, the campaign was halted abruptly when his hands convulsively gripped her upper arms and his whole frame stiffened. Foyle nearly threw her off, lifting her bodily as he rose up suddenly, with a shout of pain, his face stricken with distress.
"Dammit...! Leg...spasm. Help me up, Sam, - better if I stand!"
He clutched at her arm and they struggled up onto their feet together. Foyle draped his right arm heavily across her shoulders and shifted his weight onto the spasming left leg to brace it,
"Jeezuz! Wept."
Sam was stunned and a little panicked at his obvious agony, pressing her hand to his breast,
"Ssir! What can I do?!"
He threw his head back, the fingers of his right hand digging into her shoulder, his left hand grasping his upper thigh. He grimaced at the ceiling, cursing, eyes watering, until the violent contraction subsided and the rock hard leg muscles unlocked. Open-mouthed, a bit shocked from the ordeal, his breathing was laboured for a few moments.
"Christ. That one... was excruciating. Ssorry. Rather sspoiled the moment."
Through the ebbing pain and embarrassment he managed a sort of half-grin,
"And do stop calling me 'Sir'...!"
He pressed his lips to her temple, pulled her closer to wrap his left arm around her slender waist. Christopher held onto her, truly needing her support, nearly pushing her off-balance, again, as he shifted onto his good right leg. It was an even more unstable repeat of their first awkward embrace of the morning. They stood like that awhile, arms around each other as he recovered, enjoying the intimacy of the contact.
Sam had never in her life been so thoroughly manhandled, but he hadn't hurt her, and she admitted to herself, with a blush, that it had been rather thrilling to be so easily picked up and moved about by him. Almost like the more athletic version of the American 'Swing Dance' she'd seen back in '43, but wouldn't have dared try.
She was very reluctant to end this physical closeness, and leaned into him willingly, their first full embrace unencumbered by layers of coats or public scrutiny. She didn't wish to make comparisons, but he felt reassuringly substantial, solid and muscled, and his natural scent, intensified by this sudden trauma, she found provocative and almost intoxicating.
But Sam was the first to draw back, concerned for the fatiguing after-effect of the spasm.
"Right." She said, a little shakily,
"Christopher. You need to rest properly. Let's get your jacket off and sit you down with your leg elevated."
Sam took his suit jacket, helped manoeuvre him to his armchair, positioned the ottoman and carefully lifted his leg onto it. She placed a cushion under his knee to raise it higher, obliging him to recline against the backrest. Then she knelt down before him and gently, cautiously massaged his thigh through the cloth of his trouser leg. He watched her intently.
Sam looked up, took note of his acute interest, and blushed again.
Trying to remain businesslike, she stilled her hands and rested them over his knee,
"H-heat first, then cold. Do you have a hot water bottle?"
He nodded, with a twitch of his lips,
"Larder, bottom shelf, I think."
"Tensor bandage?"
"Mm-Airing cupboard, upstairs."
"Aspirin? Or - do you have something stronger?"
"Nno, Sam, it's..." he protested mildly, then thought the better of it,
"Well. Yes, all right. Medicine cabinet."
"And a cup of tea."
"Tea would be lovely." he answered quietly, rather subdued.
His eyes strayed to her hands on his knee, then blinked with disappointment and resignation as she removed them, rising to attend to his other needs.
But she paused, sat on the armrest and looked into his face, saying warningly,
"I know what you're thinking, and I want you to stop. This is a temporary setback. You'll be fit as a fiddle in no time."
Then her fingers were busy slowly pulling off his tie, undoing the remaining buttons of his waistcoat,
"Besides, this is only one of several reasons why we must behave ourselves. And perhaps the only reason likely to stop me ravishing you right here and now."
That brought a half-smile, and he scratched his temple self-consciously.
Sam bent to bestow a lingering kiss, caressing his neck and shoulder inside his shirt,
"Don't go anywhere." She murmured softly, "I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail."
He held her a moment with his soulful, sky-blue eyes, subtly smiling,
"Can't go anywhere without you."
"Oh...!," she smiled back with sudden tears, "...For that you get another kiss."
Twenty minutes later he had his cup of tea, a hot water bottle warming his aching thigh and knee, a tablet beginning to ease his residual discomfort, and Sam, perched cheerfully on the ottoman beside his leg.
The small jeweller's box sat undisturbed on the table, waiting.
tbc...