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 21

It was Sunday, and given the duration of their late night conversation, neither woke early enough for morning church services. The weather had turned cold and rainy. Sam stood at the window in the sitting room gazing out at the grey sky, watching the raindrops pattering over the new Wolseley.

Three more days of this strange sort of limbo to get through until Wednesday, when they would learn the results of her test. She was quite convinced it would be negative, she felt nothing unusual inside.

Outside, however, between herself and Christopher, there definitely had been a current of tension flowing and ebbing all week. She glanced over at the jeweller's box in the centre of the mantelpiece - his promise of a promise to be made between them. Their days together, so far, had been quite wonderful to her - excitingly new, flirtatious, at times fun - then had gone rather off the rails last Wednesday evening. But since then, with both of them back on a more sensible track, it had still been lovely. She was moved and so pleased that he was beginning to share the story of his earlier life with her.

Then he'd chosen to try to hide that letter. That was bothering her. Quite a lot.

She was still in her night attire, warming her hands around a mug of tea, rather hoping to continue their talk from where they had broken off in the wee hours of the morning. A quick sorting through his letters on the table had confirmed her suspicion that it was the one addressed from Brighton Hospital that he had taken away in his dressing gown pocket.

Darkening with a troubled frown, Sam's eyes followed the rain as it splashed and flowed down the hill of Steep Lane, and she mused,
'He would know, surely, that it was too late to hide it from me - that I'd already read it? ...Or perhaps he wasn't hiding it, but... remembering...'

'Well, of course,' she now realized, 'this was the first time he'd seen the letter since it had been written, twenty-nine years ago. ...But, who was that kind, very pretty, nurse? And what had she meant to him?'

It was now after eight, and she had heard Christopher stir only a little while ago. She made a fresh pot of tea. When he at last came down to join her in the kitchen, he was neatly groomed and shaved, fully dressed in suit and tie.

"Oh-. You look like you mean business." She remarked, surprised, and with a note of curiosity bordering on trepidation in her voice.

"I usually do." he answered with a touch of his dry humour. "Em, it's Sunday. I thought we might try to catch the morning service." He looked her up and down pointedly. "'Begin as we mean to go on...'?"

"Right. Of course! I'll get dressed. Here, you can have this. It's just made." She handed him her second cup of tea as she passed, then back-stepped to give him a smile and land a kiss on his cheek,
"...And - good morning..., darling. You're ...feeling all right?"

"Morning, Sam. Off you go." She noted that he did not kiss her back. All business, indeed.

She would have to hurry if they were to make it to church before they were conspicuously late for the eight-thirty service. As she quickly dressed, it occurred to her that this was his plan to avoid that conversation.

: : :

They were only a little late, arriving before the beginning of the sermon, having rushed down the hill together under separate umbrellas. Christopher also carried his cane, 'for the sake of the neighbours.' He told her he felt he might have done without it, really, as his knee was quite improved. Inside the Church they deposited coats and umbrellas, then sat together in a pew about halfway down the aisle.

The service was well-attended, the hymns were tuneful, and afterwards Foyle found several acquaintances to stop and exchange greetings with. Sam somehow found herself in the position of standing back at such a distance that introductions were not necessary, seeming to be waiting only for a chance to get by the congenial knot of friends. Apparently, without her MTC uniform, no one recognised her or associated her with Mr. Foyle.

Well, she thought, she wasn't about to push in uninvited, though he would have to devise some way of explaining her presence, sometime soon. Wouldn't he? Until he could introduce her as his fiancée.

...Until then, she considered idly as her eyes wandered over the stately fifteenth century architecture, perhaps she should find some other sort of uniform to wear, - definitely not a nurse, perhaps a maid or cook, a chauffeur...? Nothing like a uniform to justify your existence, or make a person invisible...

At last the group began to disperse, and he tarried at the back, using the excuse of his cane to gesture the others forward, then he signalled her with his eyes to follow him out. As they helped each other into their coats, he offered no apology for failing to include her in the circle, instead suggesting,

"A bite of lunch somewhere, Sam? Where'd y' like to go?"

She didn't answer, but pursed her lips, recognising delaying tactics when she heard them. Well, that was fine. She was patient. And hungry. Interestingly, he had picked up the car keys on his way out, so they walked back, through a tapering rainshower, straight to the Wolseley.

'Premeditated delaying tactics. Whatever that letter represented or reminded him of must be quite significant to him...'

She glanced across the roof of the car, and saw the shadow of sadness over his features.

'And ...painful, no doubt. Yes. Of course, she must remember that.'

As she got in behind the wheel, Sam shut her eyes in a moment of conscience, then turned to him with a more understanding smile,
"You choose, darling."

"Oh? Well, er, I recall there was quite a good seafood bisque on the menu at the Bembrooke Hotel. That would warm us up nicely on this rather cold, wet day, don't you think, Sam?"

"Sounds delicious."

: : :

As Samantha navigated the car through the streets of Hastings, Foyle began a desultory critique of the sermon, which led into a knowledgeable summary of highlights of the five-hundred-year history of the church and then into a recounting of the ongoing efforts to raise funds to restore the stained glass window that had been blown out during an air raid in September of '43.

In between her brief responses and mild exclamations of interest inserted into his monologue, Sam began to cast quizzical sidelong glances at him. He affected to be oblivious to her looks, and she could see the sheen of discomfort in his eyes.

Before negotiating the final right turn onto Robertson Terrace, Sam reached over and rested her hand on his knee, saying kindly,
"It's all right, Christopher. I won't ask. Discussion closed. Until you choose to open it."

After a worried flash of his eyes at her, he bit the inside of his cheek and stared out the side window, then gave an audible sigh,
"...'preciate it, Sam."

She made the turn and pulled up in front of the Bembrooke, reassuring him,
"We'll enjoy our lunch - and then I'll drive you...wherever you want to go."

Foyle gave her a fond, and grateful, smile.

: : : : :

However, he did not choose to open the discussion that day, nor the next, nor the next. They had delved, instead, into the boxes of archival documents from Worthing and Folkestone as Foyle sought to cross-reference incidences and trends in criminal activity on the south coast through the years of the Great War.

Sam's troubled curiosity about the letter had waned somewhat by Tuesday morning, and gradually, by that evening, was entirely superseded by her anxiety over learning the results of her pregnancy test on Wednesday.

Christopher had observed throughout the day that Sam was preoccupied, then pensive, and that by evening, quite unconsciously, she rested a protective hand over her lower abdomen. After dinner, they sat together in the chairs at the hearth, and she held a file he'd offered her, containing a rather dramatic account of the arrest of a notorious illegal horse betting ring, but he saw that her eyes had not moved down the page for ten minutes.

He set aside the old 1914 copy of The Police Gazette he'd been perusing, one of dozens included in an archive box from Hastings Station itself, and spoke her name softly,

"Sam? Feeling all right?" He reached across and, as she lowered the file, took it from her hand.

"Oh, yes. Yes, quite fine. Nervous, I suppose." She managed a weak smile.

"I'll go with you tomorrow, if you like." He added with a bright glance, "I could drive you."

But she was too distracted in her worry to catch his little witticism.

He felt he couldn't intrude any further into her thoughts, imagining they must be a rather complex mix of dashed hopes, regrets, hurt - and a justifiable apprehension over this potential legacy from her brief first marriage. He admitted to himself that it would complicate matters..., though it would never alter his love for her.

Without another word he stood, took her hand, and drew her up into a warm embrace. Sam relaxed gratefully against him with a sad sigh.

Wednesday

Christopher was in the driver's seat of his new car, for the very first time after purchasing it over a week ago. He had driven Sam to her appointment, and was waiting outside the doctor's surgery. Sam had assured him he needn't come in. And although he'd brought another old copy of The Police Gazette to read, he hadn't opened it, instead gazing out the windscreen at the overcast mid-October day. Thinking. The fingers of his right hand were drumming on the steering wheel. It had already been nearly thirty minutes...

He'd been replaying in his mind the little speech he'd made to her on their first day together, Monday of last week. His promise of a marriage proposal that hinged on two things - first, her duty to others, specifically Adam's parents, if she were pregnant, and second, her father's approval of their plans. At the time this had seemed to him a prudent and reasonable approach. But just now, waiting and wondering how Sam was making out in there, he began to see it in a different light.

Feeling restless, he climbed out of the car and walked around to lean against the passenger door, hands in trouser pockets, watching for her to come out. His fingers now drummed against his leg, inside his pocket.

Sam had readily agreed to the terms he had outlined, but now it occurred to him that she might well have felt she had no choice but to accept whatever he had suggested. Well, within reason. Her position was certainly a difficult one, and, with regard to himself - she might feel - a tenuous one. And perhaps he, in fact, had done little to lighten that burden of anxiety for her.

She might very well believe, deep down, that he had merely named two obstacles that gave him an excuse not to follow through...

With a wince of self-reproach, Foyle straightened up and began walking at speed along the path to the doctor's door. Before he reached it, Sam stepped outside, head bowed, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. He saw she'd been weeping, but that in itself was in no way a clear sign to him of what the test results had been.

He caught her in his arms before she knew he was there, turned with her, and solicitously led her to the car.

Holding her hand on the seat between them, he watched her closely as she composed herself, drying her eyes, calming a few last hitching breaths. At last she looked up at him and said quietly,
"All clear. The result was negative. I'm not pregnant."

He was greatly relieved and overjoyed to hear it, but dared not show it,
"And...how do feel about that, Sam?"

She sighed,
"Immensely relieved. Terribly sad. And... frightened."

"Frightened?" He squeezed her fingers.

"Well, it's yet more proof that I might not...be able to..."

He moved across the seat and gathered her close,
"Whatever it takes to...investigate this thoroughly, Sam. Top Harley Street Consultants, whatever we need to do, ...promise you."

He felt her arms tighten around him, she pushed her nose into his neck, then after a long pause, she murmured,
"You sure you want to bet... on a nag that might not run?"

He narrowed his eyes over her shoulder,
"...Nnot sure I'd quite put it that way..."

She whispered by his ear,
"Determined to get to the bottom of this, are you?"

"Sam...?" He pulled back, very puzzled, and saw a small smile warring with her composure and playing over her lips.

"Sorry, darling. I am...saddened for the Wainwrights. Of course. And anxious about, well, our plans... But, the truth is," she broke into a beaming smile,
"I'm so relieved! I was afraid...I could never truly be yours, if..." She dashed a stray tear from her cheek,
"And now, well, I feel I can begin again."

"We... can begin." He hastened to reassure her.

Foyle quirked an eyebrow, surprised at her sudden change of manner,
"Um, ...well, I have to confess, Sam, I'm...quite pleased as well. But, you know, darling," he cupped her face in his hand, wiping another tear away with his thumb, "...either way, you'd still be...my own...dearest Sam." He kissed her softly.

She rested her forehead on his, smiling, eyes closed, and asked,
"What now, Christopher?"

"Well, um, we've certainly had a weight lifted off our shoulders, haven't we? A modest celebration, perhaps?"

"Hmm, yes." She drew back and covered a yawn with her hand, "I don't particularly want to read any more about 'illegal rambling' for the remainder of the day, if it's all right with you..."

He hid a half-smile, saying sympathetically,
"Didn't get a wink of sleep last night, did you?"

"Not really."

"...MmPerhaps we could have the day off, then. Um, noticed you didn't eat any breakfast this morning. Start with an early lunch? Le Coquillage?"

"Now that you mention it, I'm famished!"

tbc...