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 is intended.

UXB Chapter 25

Wednesday comes to a close, ...at long last.

Upstairs in the back bedroom, Sam changed out of her clothes and into her nightgown. It had been a long, emotionally taxing day. For both herself and Christopher. And she had the evidence of just how difficult it had been for him - a quarter of an hour ago, as they had been tidying up, preparing to retire, she'd seen him slip the jeweller's box back onto the mantelpiece. She hadn't noticed it was gone. But...to think he'd been carrying it in his pocket all day...!

She sat on the narrow bed, sighed, and reviewed all that had happened: the doctor's test result at last giving them the answer to that all-important question, the unexpected awkwardness - near unpleasantness, really - in the restaurant, and then their rather strained talk up on the clifftop leading to his difficult confession of an old wartime affair.
In her own mind, while she understood his reluctance to divulge this to her, she was secretly glad to know he'd had his somewhat passionate moments as a young man.

But today - no doubt he'd fully expected there to be an opportunity to propose in the very agreeable, even romantic, ambiance of the restaurant...

'Oh dear.' Sam fretted, 'The poor man. His confidence must have been rather bruised.' For though they were on their usual good terms at home this evening, he hadn't proposed. She must find a way to smooth the path for him...

Suddenly Sam very much needed to be close to him, and she got up and went out onto the landing, sans dressing gown, waiting for Christopher to emerge from the bathroom. He soon came out with a whiff of toothpaste and a double glance of surprise, first at her standing there and then again, slightly alarmed, at her almost undressed state.

"Ssorry, were you...waiting...?"

Sam twisted her fingers round themselves,
"Not at all, darling. I just wanted...needed... you."

And she put her arms around him, pressing close.
He was comparatively well-clad in pyjamas and his dressing gown, and felt warm and comforting to her. Whereas she had on only a light, sleeveless, summer-weight nightgown, as much of her warmer winter clothing had been left behind and then destroyed in the explosion. Christopher hardly dared to put his hands on her, she was so nearly naked.

"Darling, I'm so sorry about-, well, about making a scene in the restaurant."

"No-no, Sam, please don't think that for a minute." He held her gingerly, looking at the ceiling, biting his lower lip.

"I rather spoiled things, I'm afraid..." She said to his lapel, playing with a button on his pyjama jacket.

"...Entirely my fault. You were quite right to stand up for yourself."

"Still, I might have been a little less adamant."

He replied gently,
"Ssam, it was just as you've said. ...Expected to 'have it all my own way,' and, em..."

She smiled shyly,
"...Perhaps I should let you, now and then..."

One corner of his mouth quirked up, but he shut his eyes, only slightly more amused by her remark than he was disconcerted at her state of undress,

"W'll, em, I do hope you will, now and then, Samantha." Decisively he placed his hands on her bare upper arms to move her away, smiled and kissed her cheek,
"Mmustn't keep you here on the landing, it's, er, ...not warm enough."

He gestured towards her door, and lightly touched her on the back to send her in that direction as he turned the other way,
"G'night, Sam..."

"Good-night, ...Christopher." With a wistful expression she watched him step inside his bedroom and shut his door.

Leaning against her own closed door, with the warmth of his hands cooling on her skin, the sense of how dissatisfying this arrangement was nearly overwhelmed her, and she brushed away a tear, eyes scanning the ceiling. They should be together, sharing the comfort of lying in each other's arms, ...and more. After all, they were to be man and wife soon...

Sam climbed into the narrow single bed, pulling up the covers and sitting with her arms around her knees. She gave another long sigh.

They would soon be married, and yet... she was still behaving, for the most part, like a temporary guest in his house. Keeping her few belongings confined to this room, not even begging space in the bathroom for her toothbrush or other toiletries. As if she didn't quite believe that they would ever come to that level of ease and familiarity...

It was difficult, making the transition from their former roles of superior and subordinate, boss and underling. They'd had six years together of never crossing that line of professional distance, of formal conduct... And he was so mindful of due diligence and proper deportment, insisting on an investigation into her post-marital status, confessing his previous loves, and determined to seek approval from her parents.
Surely all obstacles had been nearly overcome now? Yet, perhaps Christopher was finding it difficult to begin to regard her as, and see her in the role of, his wife...

With a new inspiration Sam lifted her chin. It was time she began to claim her domestic and marital place - stop being a mere guest, and start behaving as his wife! Not that she intended to attempt to force intimacy upon him, to seduce him - she wasn't quite that brave - but she certainly could be less reserved and restrained in her presence in the house.
Why, there were rooms she hadn't even entered yet - his bedroom, of course, but also his study, a basement, and an entire, apparently unused, upper floor.

And as for any shyness over her personal modesty, well, she'd gotten over that quickly enough with Adam after their wedding night. Not that one wanted to spoil the mystery entirely - so far Christopher had seen only one of her breasts - she bit her lip at the memory of that brief sensual interlude. But just now... well, it seemed he'd hardly looked at her in her thin cotton nightgown.

But she might, perchance, be a little freer in her ways... Sam shifted herself down under the bedclothes and laid her head on the pillow, eyes aglow with determination as she shut off the lamp.

: : : : :

Christopher leaned against his bedroom door and ran his fingertips over his slightly damp brow. He'd managed to maintain a proper, respectful restraint with Samantha just now, but all the while the voice in his head had been urging, beseeching, 'Take her to bed, man! You're all but married and she's made it clear she wants you, too - Have her now, at last!'

Oh, god, he wanted her! And the unexpected sight of Sam, so sweetly appealing in that gossamer-thin nightgown, her delectable curves enticingly draped, and the living, breathing sensation of her, so delicate in his arms, nearly overcame his resolve to follow the proper course.

Of course, morally, it simply wouldn't be right - they weren't yet married - and how could he face her father with even a shred of integrity if he'd violated that precept?

After his assurances as to Sam's personal and moral safety when he'd first met Reverand Stewart early on in the War, he couldn't possibly look the man in the eye now, and ask for his blessing on their marriage, if he'd already bedded his daughter!

He shook his head and paced across the rug a few times.

But setting the moral imperative aside, he was still quite determined, and highly motivated, to let a sufficient number of weeks pass so as to nullify any doubts that could be raised as to the paternity of their child, should they have one. It had now been more than seven weeks since the death of her estranged husband... Was that long enough, nine months down the line...? Or if the child should arrive early...?

He shrugged out of his dressing gown and got into his bed, wondering how much longer he'd be the sole occupant. He had made preparations: stowed in the linen cupboard were a complete set of new bedclothes he'd managed to purchase, and two new pillows for his and Sam's side - he was already designating it that in his mind.

It occurred to him that, though he'd slept alone for fourteen years now, he'd never learned to encroach beyond his side of the double bed. Strange, really.

Lying on his back with a forearm resting on his brow, he recalled, not very nostalgically, that he'd slept in the same narrow bed at his father's house from childhood up to the age of twenty-two. His father had seen no reason for him to take up space in the unmarried policemen's barracks - though as a very young man Foyle had felt he might like to experience it, be one of the lads.

Then there had been the equally narrow and much less comfortable army cots while in basic training, followed by generally no bed at all in the trenches, and at most a folding canvas camp cot while behind the lines. The beds in the hospital and convalescent camp had been luxurious in comparison.

Then his marriage bed in their first modest house, furnished nearly entirely by Rosalind's family, generously, kindly, without fuss, knowing that paying for the house and their daily living expenses was the extent his police sergeant's wages would run to.

And this, the bed he was lying in now, was that same bed, though he'd replaced the mattress just before the start of the War. He had turned it as often as he supposed was recommended, so it was hardly broken in.

Despite having it to himself for such a long time, he still kept to the one side. ...And, as far as he knew, he didn't kick or flail about or talk in his sleep.

He rolled over and swept his arm up the smooth, barren plain of the unoccupied half of the mattress, as if warming it. It would be wonderful, delightful, to have Samantha here beside him. Soon...

Thursday

In the morning Sam was keen to try out her new wifely attitude, and emerged from her bedroom after she'd heard Christopher pass back and forth from his room to the bathroom twice. She figured he would be half-dressed and shaving by now.

Summoning her courage, she took a quick breath and tapped on the door,
"Darling, are you decent?"

There was a splash at the sink, as if something had dropped into it, and a moment of silence.

"Erm..., yyes, Sam."

Another silence, then he opened the door, a vision of frank masculinity in singlet and trousers, braces slack over his hips, and signs of hastily towelled off shaving soap. Sam was momentarily distracted by the breadth and power of his bare shoulders, as well as the scarring there from old wounds, and stood blinking at him, mouth slightly open.

"Do you, er, need the, er...?" He asked after a pause.

"...Yyes, please. I need to 'powder my nose.'" She gave him a crooked smile, wondering if he'd catch the reference to her early intrusion into his police investigation,
"But don't let me delay you..."

She put her hand on his rib-cage and pressed past him heading for the convenience. Too much familiarity to start with, perhaps - he stepped out and shut the door for her. Foyle wandered into his bedroom, hands on hips, fingers drumming.

Sam finished and opened the door, calling,
"All yours, darling."

But she didn't vacate, and stood by, still in her thin cotton nightgown, revealingly backlit by the pale morning sun at the small window, brushing her hair. He returned, and with a slow glance and a small moue took note of her intention to remain, then resumed his stance at the sink. He swirled the silvertip badger's hair brush in the shaving soap and began applying it again to his cheeks, jawline and throat. He'd already done his upper lip. He took up his razor and positioned it carefully. Sam watched with open curiosity,

"Oh. You use a straight razor. My father does, too."

Foyle paused, communing silently with his reflection.

"...I've a heavy beard, it gives the closest shave." He flicked his eyes towards her, then scraped the blade down his left cheek adjacent to his ear, rinsed it in the basinful of water, and raised it again, pressing his other thumb on the side of his chin. With several deft strokes he completed the left side.

"Hmm. Yes, quite. ...My father says, as a minister of the Church, his grooming must be impeccable. Same for a policeman, ...as I've observed." She moved to stand behind him, brushing her hair slowly, head tilted over her shoulder, watching him in the mirror.

Foyle twisted his lips, suppressing obvious amusement. He attended to the right cheek in silence, and looked up from rinsing the blade to meet her eyes. Lifting his head he brought the razor up to his throat, then paused again, addressing her quietly in the mirror,

"Look, if you're going to make a habit of this, I'll have to switch to a safety blade..."

She smiled into his reflected eyes as she gave him a one-arm embrace and kissed his neck where it met his shoulder,

"You'll get used to me, darling. I daresay, soon enough, your hand will be as steady as ever."

Foyle managed to get away in the Wolseley without a nick, and without permanent damage to his dignity. After waving farewell and closing the front door, Sam sat at the kitchen table finishing her tea. She was quite pleased with her first foray, and took some delight in planning the next, which would involve a request to be shown the upper floor. Then the telephone rang, and her confidence deflated a little as she was faced with a dilemma. After some anxious inner turmoil and fingernail-biting she decided to answer it.

"Mr. Foyle's residence." Best to say as little as was needed.

"Sam? How are you? How's Dad?"

"Andrew! I'm so pleased you've called. We're both well. He's just gone out - to the Station to pick up more research materials for his book. How are you?"

"Fine. Fine. More importantly, how are you two getting along? Have you kissed him? Properly?"

"What cheek!" She beamed, "Yes, quite a lot. Every day."

"Good." She could hear the grin in his voice. "Is he kissing you back?"

"Yes, of course." She replied with a huff of happy exasperation.

"Even better. Wedding bells in the offing?"

"Well, we haven't quite set a date. We're, um, traveling down to Lyminster to see my parents early next week."

"Good lord. Trust Dad to do everything by the book. Sam, I thought I might come down on the train on Saturday - would that upset the love nest?"

"Saturday? That would be wonderful! We'd both be thrilled to see you... Um, you'll have to bunk on the settee..."

"Oh." There was a surprised silence as he digested that news. "You're, um, still in my old room...?"

"Well, we're not married, Andrew..."

"Right. ...You are on a first name basis with him, at least, aren't you? Not still calling him 'sir?'" He asked, half-seriously.

"Very droll, Andrew. Christopher and I have had a few, um, items to sort out. But it's all coming along well, and I expect we'll announce our engagement next week."

"He's proposed, then?" His tone was light and amused again, "Don't imagine he was able to get down on one knee, what with the bomb injuries."

Sam was noncommittal,
"Hm."

"He has proposed..., hasn't he, Sam?" His alertness rather surprised her.

"Well, I know he's got me a ring..." Her eyes wandered to the mantelshelf where the little purple velvet box still sat.

"Then, why hasn't he asked you...?" His voice was more gentle.

"There've been...complications. But as I said, everything's coming along, and, er, it will all be sorted out by, er, early next week."

Rather uncharacteristically, he pursued the matter,
"What...sort of complications, Sam, or would that be prying?"

"Well, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't know. We...wanted to be sure I wasn't pregnant. You know, by...my late husband. Because of what that would mean to the Wainwrights. So I had the test. And I'm not."

"Perfectly prudent, yes. What else?"

"Oh. Well..., your father...just needed to clear his conscience by telling me of a couple of things from his past. But that's all settled now."

"Right. That. You weren't too shocked, I hope?" He asked carefully.

"Nooo..., no I wasn't." Sam was puzzled, "...Should I have been?"

"Well, it rather threw me for a loop. Took me quite a while to come to terms with it, actually. I'm glad he's told you, too. Everything above board, now."

"When...did he tell you, Andrew?"

"Last year. Just before he left for America."

She found that even more puzzling - why would Christopher need to tell his son of an old summer love affair he'd had nearly a year before marrying his mother? Why tell him then?

Andrew changed the subject,
"Where do you expect to have the ceremony, Sam? Lyminster or Hastings?"

"Oh..., to be quite honest, I haven't given it much thought. Rather depends on how my father takes the news, I suppose. I'm a bit nervous about that..."

"I should think Dad will have worked out a very persuasive argument. But I suppose if he's shot down in flames...there's always -."

"'The Registry Office,'" They both said together.

"...Which is fine by me. I've had a Church wedding. It didn't exactly guarantee happiness. I'd just like to...begin our married life." She said with a sigh.

"Hang in there, Sam. It'll all work out in the end. I've every confidence we'll all have a very happy family Christmas together this year."

"Andrew, that's so sweet! Thank-you." She teared up at the thought.

"And I'll have my old room back." He grinned down the telephone line.

"Yes. I should hope so!"

"Well, look, Sam, I've got to go now. I'm so glad things are going well - for both of you. I'll see you Saturday, in time for lunch."

"We'll meet you at the train station."

"Not necessary. I'll catch a cab."

"Oh, I didn't tell you - we've bought a car! It's a beauty. We'll pick you up, Andrew."

She rang off, smiling, and went to tidy up the kitchen.

: : : : :

As she washed and put away the breakfast things, Sam was debating with herself whether or not to move some of her personal grooming things into the bathroom, but then remembered that Thursday was Mrs. Poole's afternoon. Last week they had gone out in the car before she'd arrived, Christopher explaining that his housekeeper had her own key. She had standing orders not to bother with the 'unused' back bedroom.

So Sam turned her mind to the topic she'd intended to think about while he was out - the negative pregnancy test that represented the denouement of her rather unsuccessful marriage. ...Adam had seemed a perfectly suitable young man when they'd met in London, and they'd got on reasonably well while running the guest house in Hastings, though he'd seemed quite ready to give it up rather quickly, as his heart wasn't in it.

In fact, even when he'd at last kissed her, and when he'd proposed in the wreckage, there was a certain...tentativeness, a lack of enthusiasm... She had wondered if he'd held some part of himself back... Then, shortly after their wedding, there had been that strange three-month adventure in cooperative communal living at Sevenoaks, in Kent, with its political leanings quite at odds with her own views. Adam hadn't even let her know it was a Communist sort of enclave, and she'd been rather put out... And then she'd soon gained the clear impression that he had been searching for someone, asking after someone amongst the travellers that came and went...

While he had never talked directly about his War work, he had mentioned just a few first names of people he'd worked with, and one name he'd mentioned rather more often was a girl named Vivian. Perhaps she had been the one, in his Parliamentary Office. Perhaps she had been at the funeral. Sam hadn't even thought to look for her. A dark-haired, well-built woman, was all she recalled from the unspeakably distressing glimpse she'd had of her.

At the funeral Sam had still been rather stunned, in shock, and on top of that, dreadfully worried about Christopher... And this was the source of her disquiet about her own conduct in her marriage.

Adam was aware of how much she respected and admired 'Mr. Foyle,' they'd even gone to him together for advice, more than once, in Hastings and in London, but had she betrayed something more...? Had Adam suspected that he didn't have her whole heart, and was this what drove him to seek out his former colleague?

Or had he merely made do with her as a wife, after losing touch with 'Vivian,' the woman he preferred?

She would never truly know, now. They would never have a chance to explain themselves, to apologise to each other. She regretted that.

And then the telephone rang again. Brushing a stray tear from her cheek, she answered it in the same style as the first call, then heard a woman's voice that seemed familiar, but that she couldn't quite place.

"Hello, is that Samantha?"

"Um, yes. Yes, this is Samantha." She frowned, wondering who on earth would know to call her here.

"This is Elaine Reid, Hugh Reid's wife, from the Station. We met once or twice..."

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Reid, how are you? I'm afraid Mr. Foyle is out just now."

"That's fine, because it's you I wanted to speak with, Samantha."

"Me? How did you-?"

"Well, I've just had a call from Hugh, and he's got a bee in his bonnet, I'm afraid. It seems Christopher was just at the Station, and didn't pop in to Hugh's office to say hello. In fact, Hugh didn't even know he was in Hastings at all, so he's quite put out. Sergeant McFadden had to fill him in, and mentioned seeing you at the house last week, so I thought I'd try ringing you before Christopher got home. I need your help."

"Well. Yes. How can I help, Mrs. Reid?"

"We want to invite Christopher to dinner tomorrow, but Hugh's certain he'll decline, because, well, because he usually does. Hugh misses him dreadfully - I know he does. They were such great friends, before the War. You know, Christopher would golf to please Hugh, and Hugh would go to the river to please Christopher... They were very close. Then, somehow, with the War, they drifted apart... Got tired of talking about staff shortages and other pressures, I expect."

"And how can I help?"

"Well, I thought perhaps you could either persuade him to come, or - well, why don't you both come? Are you, er..., working for him, Samantha?"

"Ye-, well, I'm helping him, assisting him... with the book he's writing..."

"How good of you. We know he was always very fond of you. - Oh! Samantha - I do apologise, I should have offered my condolences. I understand your husband was- ...is deceased. We were all so sorry to hear of the...incident in London."

"Thank-you, Mrs. Reid. You're very kind."

"Please call me Elaine. Well then, that's settled - you and Christopher are invited to dinner on Friday. Seven, shall we say? Do persuade him to come. It would mean so much to Hugh."

Sam pressed her lips together, determined,
"Elaine, I'll get him there. ...Even if I have to drag him!"

The other woman laughed,
"That's the spirit! 'Til tomorrow, then. Good-bye, Samantha."

Sam put the phone down, smiling, just as the man in question came through the front door.

tbc...