Disclaimer: Foyle's War was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

Thanks: Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering suggestions for improvements to the story.

Author's note: Footnotes!

Chapter 24

Coming out of Rules, they discovered the rain had ceased but the streets were awash in puddles and the city air was damp with a descending fog. It was dusk already. Despite the ambient gloom, Christopher was adjusting to an unaccustomed and increasing sense of joy in his heart. As they strolled along Maiden Lane hand in hand, making their way west towards his car, a tune began to play in his head — the Gershwins' A Foggy Day — and he glanced at Elizabeth's profile.

Very quietly he began to sing,
"...Suddenly...I saw you there…
And through foggy London Town
The sun was shiningg… evvv'ry-yy...wherrre…"

He smiled shyly at her surprised expression, until he saw the glimmer of tears, and asked,
"Oh, er...was it that bad? Little out of practice…"
She laughed, blinked away the drops, and slipped her arm through his, drawing close.
"You're making me fall in love with you…"
Christopher came to an abrupt halt, and as Elizabeth was pulled around to face him he drew his left hand from his pocket to remove his hat.
"Could level the same accusation at you…"
They watched each other in mutual esteem until there was nothing else to do but meet in a kiss of longing, of confirmation, and gratitude.

A passerby cleared his throat as he stepped around them, moving quickly on up the pavement.
They ignored the censure, and held each other tightly before breaking off the kiss in several stages of reluctant disengagement.
Elizabeth rested her forehead on his, eyes closed, smiling happily.
After a deep inhalation Christopher murmured,
"Let's walk, shall we, ...while the rain holds off?"

They resumed their stroll, and he donned his trilby with a small celebratory flourish. Crossing the street and turning two corners — south onto Bedford and then eastbound into the bright lights of the Strand — they came to the Adelphi Theatre.*

They paused to read the marquee but neither was especially attracted by the description of 'Les Ballets des Champs Élysées.' Elizabeth confessed with a self-deprecating smirk,
"Generally I enjoy the ballet, ...but I do need a day or two's notice to get into the right frame of mind for it."
Christopher nodded in understanding, then he recalled something and inquired of her,
"How d'you feel about Noël Coward?"
"I adore Noël Coward."
"Good. The revival of 'Present Laughter' opens mid-April at the Haymarket. I'll get us tickets."
"Oh, that would be lovely, Christopher."
They walked on, conversing easily, arms linked, Foyle taking the outside position on her right this time. Next they came to the Vaudeville, and read of the imminent opening of a new play, 'The Chiltern Hundreds.'
"Yea or nay?" Elizabeth asked, a sparkle in her eyes.
"A comedy? Almost always a 'yea'..." He admitted with an inverted smile.
"Excellent."
"...Though this one would appear to be a comedy of politics, judging by the title, which, er, might devolve into farce."
She chuckled at the remark as they continued up the street.

They passed by the Lyceum, recently converted to a ballroom. Neither made an observation on the change. Elizabeth turned her head, looking past Christopher, over the traffic, to study the bill of the Savoy across the Strand, and gestured towards it,
"'À la Carte'…? Bits of Gilbert and Sullivan, perhaps? ...Oh, no. It's Alan Melville. He can be amusing, don't you think?"
"Mmm..."
She saw he was not reading the marquee at all, but watching her with a warm appreciation. She blushed with pleasure and gave him a quick kiss, whispering,
"I'll take that as a 'nay,' then."

Further along was The Duchess Theatre, offering Webster's 'The White Devil,' an early seventeenth century tragedy.
Christopher took his turn in the game, asking her with a tilt of his head,
"Yea or nay?"
"I'd have to say 'nay,' I'm afraid. I've lost my taste for a tragedy, lately, even if based on an historical event. Besides, I've read this one and it is egregiously unfair to women."
"Fair enough." He gave a nod. "Er...the Aldwych is around the corner."

Here they read the poster for 'Jane,' by an American writer and based on a story by Somerset Maugham, which had in turn been inspired by Shaw's Pygmalion. Elizabeth announced,
"I predict...that you'd...be willing to see this one."
He raised a playful, questioning eyebrow and she explained her reasoning.
"A comedy…, an intelligent observation of society...with a New World viewpoint."
"Spot on." He confirmed with an appreciative half-grin.

"You said you've been to America, Christopher?" She asked, bumping against his shoulder as she avoided another couple passing them on her side.
"I have. Travelled to Washington last year. ...Have you...er...?
"Yes. California. Before the War. A conference at Stanford University. The climate there was...out of this world."
"Long way to go. Atlantic crossing and then the whole continent by train."
"Oh, well worth the journey." She turned to him with a marvelling expression,
"The streets are lined with towering palm trees!"
"...Delightful."

Circling the block, they eventually found themselves at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, where Noël Coward's 'Pacific 1860' was entering the third month of its run. Christopher suggested,
"Read it's getting mixed reviews, but, em...shall we see it?"
"Mmm, not this evening..., if it's all the same to you, Christopher. I'm really quite happy walking around, as we are." She squeezed his arm to her side.
"So am I."
They gazed into each other's eyes, pleased to find themselves in perfect accord.

Crossing a little distance from the corner, avoiding a lake-sized puddle extending over half the junction, they strolled west on Russell Street. The fog was thick now, reducing visibility to less than ten feet, and they slowed their pace. Elizabeth remarked on the current offerings at the Royal Opera House, obscured from view though only a block to the north.
"Apparently Margot Fonteyn is unwell, and other dancers are being deputised to perform her roles — Moira Shearer 'stepped in' for her in 'Lac des Cygnes' last week."
"Oh, er…, 'Swan Lake'? Shearer is the lovely, red-haired dancer?"
She raised her brows in pleasant surprise,
"Yes."
"W'so you follow the ballet?"
"It rather seems that you do, Christopher."
"Nno...not really." He said lightly.
"I suppose I do…along with many forms of entertainment. I think a nation's character is most strongly defined by its arts — the quality...and the freedom of its arts."
"I'd agree."
He paused before adding with a sigh,
"...And yet, Drury Lane was the headquarters for ENSA…"
Elizabeth laughed aloud.
"'Every Night Something Awful.' Yes, it took a little while for them to get going properly. ...We saw 'Hello Happiness' and other variety shows at the Cairo Opera House. Silly, for the most part, but so vitally important for morale."
Foyle nodded and she expanded on the topic,
"...Highbrow critics and social analysts insist that entertainment ought to be instructional or educational. I don't see any harm in a good laugh."
"Wull, god knows...we need it now and then."
"I've enjoyed many a production by Emile Littler." She admitted with a grin.
"Er...can't say I've heard of him."
"The pantomime king? A very successful theatrical producer..." *
Christopher watched her luminous pearl-grey eyes, enticingly cast to the upper right as she made an effort to recall.
"Let's see...he's a co-producer of 'Under the Counter' at the Phoenix with Cicely Courtneidge — it's been running since '45. And his 'Song of Norway' at the Palace began nearly a year ago…"
"W'can't approve of 'Under the Counter.' Really…" he warned with a mock disapproving frown.
"No," she chuckled, "...I wouldn't insist on that one, darling."
She'd surprised herself with the endearment, slipping out so naturally, and she watched him for his reaction.

Foyle ran his tongue over his bottom lip. In the conversational pause they slowed to a stop under the nimbus of a street lamp. Drifting together again, nose to nose, he cupped her cheek in his hand.
Before they could kiss, running footfalls approached. Foyle was instantly on the alert, pulling Elizabeth behind him. Two couples, eastbound for the restaurant and theatre district, hurried past them. After an initial frisson of fear, despite the commotion, Elizabeth only had eyes for Christopher, admiring his watchful composure as he appraised the situation.
He pivoted back to her, half-smiling,
"Emm...what were we discussing? Ah, yesss…"
He drew intimately close and caressed her cheek again, but a moment later they heard the mild cries of a collision in the fog.

"Oh! Peter, I've knocked down a small boy. Dreadfully sorry."
"Let me help you up, lad."
"All right, madam? Very sorry. Come on, Alfred, you're all right. Walk behind me, the pair of ye. Bad as the bloody blackout, this is!"

Although they had taken refuge by the lamp post, Foyle again had to rescue Elizabeth, this time from the onslaught of the westbound man and his two young sons, who nearly blundered into them.
Passing by, the cockney called out cheerily,
"Mind how ye go, 'Lili Marlene.'"
The little, high-pitched voices trailed after him, querying,
"Dad, who was that lady? Is she called Lily…? Well, why did you call her Lily...?"
Despite her amused expression, Christopher firmly took Elizabeth's arm, flashed her an eye roll of defeat and determination, and set off westward again.

Russell Street opened onto Covent Garden, where the Market, shrouded in fog, presumably lay ahead of them. Quickening their pace, Christopher turned left and then right along the south side of the square, some distance from the calls and banter of the busy fruit and vegetable stalls.
Aware of a new energy in his stride, Elizabeth wondered if he simply wanted to avoid the crowds in the fog or if he had a destination in mind. When they turned north and then left through a high-arched stone gateway she saw he was leading her to the entrance of 'the actors' church' - St. Paul's, Covent Garden.

Soon they were standing together before the red brick western façade of the simple, square-built old structure. Elizabeth wore a secret smile, which Christopher noticed, and he silently questioned her with a look.
After a momentary hesitation she explained brightly,
"...I've heard that Inigo Jones designed it to the specifications of the Earl of Bedford, purportedly promising him, 'then you shall have the handsomest barn in England.'"
Foyle wasn't convinced it was the terms of an architectural commission that had brought on the smile, nonetheless he agreed,
"Wull, t'is that. ...Shall we go in?"
She nodded, and the smile was there again.

Foyle removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and they wandered up the softly-lit nave to view the choir and sanctuary. The ten tall stained glass windows were all darkened now, however the great uninterrupted interior space was pleasing in its proportions.
As they admired the raised pulpit with its carvings attributed to Grinling Gibbons, he sought her hand again.

They looked back towards the gallery and gleaming brass organ above the narthex and door, and Foyle noted there were only a scattered few other people, walking about or sitting in contemplation. There would be a modicum of privacy for the conversation their evening together seemed to be leading them towards. When Elizabeth rested against his shoulder, he felt her breath warm on his neck and ear. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he guided her down the north aisle, and they settled into an empty pew, hands joined.

Neither was inclined to bend their head in prayer. Neither, at this moment, wished to discuss architecture, history or religion. In the stillness and quiet of the church, both now felt a heightened tension of expectation between them.

Foyle bit his lip, then decisively placed his hat on the end of the bench seat, turning with a question for Elizabeth, just as she, with a quick indrawn breath, leant confidentially towards him.
"...As my father's no longer here to ask, I will, on my own behalf. ...What are your...intentions, Christopher?"
Suddenly his heart was thumping alarmingly fast in his chest — of the two possible discussions he'd desired, this was the one he'd believed it would be too soon to hope for.
After a deep, slow inhalation he answered definitely,
"My intentions…? Em...Mmmarriage."
He raised her fingers up to his lips.
"And...your intentions, Elizabeth?"
The light in her eyes was reassuring as she met his searching look,
"Very much the same…"
"Wull, immensely pleased to know it." He pressed her hand to his cheek and watched closely for her response as he added,
"Look, em...there's no hurry, of course …but...I am sixty-one."
Both smiled, amused at the confession.
She countered,
"On the contrary, I see no reason to delay..."
He gave a single nod, and ventured,
"Er...Special Licence acceptable?"
"Yes. That would simplify things."
Still holding her hand, he tilted his wrist to glance at his watch.
"Register Office is...open for another half-hour..."
He looked up at her with an eyebrow cocked as if for a dare.
Although she was beaming, Christopher saw a flicker of hesitation in her eyes.
"Ahh, what is it? Tell me, darling…"
Elizabeth glowed at his first use of the endearment, but moved a shoulder in a slight, rather sensual shrug as if it didn't matter.
"Oh… There's just...one small thing…"
He puzzled a moment, then widened his eyes in recollection before slipping his right knee down onto the padded kneeler. It was a bit awkward in the narrow space between the pews — and under the curious gaze of an unwitting, small audience — but he found his balance.
Caressing the back of her hand with his thumb, Foyle murmured just for her ears,
"Elizabeth? Will you do me the honour...of becoming my wife... and...accepting me as your husband...?"
Her eyes closed a moment in profound happiness, a single tear escaped, and she gave him her answer in a whisper.
"...I will, Christopher."
He rose up onto the bench beside her again, got out his handkerchief to soothe away the tear track, and tenderly kissed her.
"That's wwwonderful…" He had to blink away the moisture in his own eyes.
Heads together, they enjoyed the moment…until a quiet patter of applause arose from the surrounding benches.

To be continued...

Footnotes:

*Ira and George Gershwin's 'A Foggy Day', was written in 1937 for the film, 'A Damsel in Distress' starring Fred Astaire. My favourite rendition is by Judy Garland at her solo concert at Carnegie Hall in 1961.

*Using a 1948 map online to plan their stroll through the theatre district. I've done my best to research the plays on offer at all the West End theatres in March of 1947.

*Bestower of RADA's Emile Littler Award for 'outstanding talent and aptitude for the professional theatre,' once won by a certain young Michael Kitchen. Now I know who Littler was. He passed away in 1985.

*Detailed architectural drawings of St. Paul's Church, and historical paintings, show both ten or twelve stained glass windows, as well as structures on the eastern end sort of like north and south transepts, or none at all. The church was rebuilt several times in its long history since 1631.

*I've found no record of WWII bomb damage around Covent Garden.