Up with the lark, to bed with a wren

Chapter 9

Author's note: Thank you, again, to my first readers for their helpful suggestions. And thank you to the anonymous reviewer FS who has been so consistent in giving me feedback on this story!

Emma

Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle thought that he had made it clear to Elizabeth Lewes that there was nothing more for the two of them to say to each other, when he last saw her at the dinner party for Howard Paige. But then she had practically begged him to let her call on him, and though it went against his inclinations to do so—Lewes was a friend of his, after all—he consented. Experience had taught him that sometimes it was best to acquiesce to a woman's plans, especially if it were possible that she would never carry through on them. And so he had hoped that Elizabeth would forget that she had ever suggested the idea, and leave him in peace.

Mrs. Lewes, however, was not one to give up the opportunity to talk to Christopher Foyle in his own home.

Driving through the Hastings countryside with Foyle at her side, Sam tried to keep up a normal stream of conversation. But despite her efforts to sound interested in the murder investigation, she could not hide her sleepiness. The cell cot really had been terribly uncomfortable, but more than that, her mind had kept her up the night before. It pained her to be responsible for the fight that had ensued between Milner and his wife, and her thoughts kept going back to them. Milner had looked happy for just a brief moment, when she had asked him to dance. But that innocent pleasure had lasted all too briefly, and Sam felt the loss on his behalf.

The war had barely started, and already it had changed so many lives.

For Sam, war had given her the excuse that she needed to leave her parents' home in Lyminster and make a life for herself elsewhere. She had grown up thinking that she would only escape from the vicarage if someone put a ring on her finger, but the W.T.C. had given her the opportunity to get out, on her own, without the help of her father or any other man. Except—there was another man. Sam asked herself if she had, unwittingly, constricted herself even further by becoming involved with Mr. Foyle.

What about Mr. Foyle's help? Sam asked herself. I would not be here still without it. It was all so confusing. He was the reason she had been pulled from the W.T.C. to work in the police—he had requested a driver, after all—and he was the reason that she had wanted to stay in Hastings, when her father asked her to go home. He was also the reason—indirectly, with Milner's help—why her father had allowed her to stay. And Foyle was the reason Sam was now doubting her own independence. Her life in Hastings was not independent; it was inextricably tied up with that of the man who sat in the passenger seat.

These thoughts were too much for Sam to dwell on with only three hours sleep behind her. She yawned widely. Foyle, ever sharp-eyed, perceived it immediately. A nagging feeling persisted in the back of his thoughts: all was not well between him and Sam, and he was at least partly to blame for Sam's exhaustion. She should not have been tired. Not only was it dangerous for her to be driving, but he felt ashamed that he had not been able to offer her the comfort she deserved, after she was bombed out of her house.

"Tired?" he asked her.

"I—I didn't get much sleep last night, Sir," she said, shaking her head as if to wake herself up.

"Still at your friend's?" he asked, with more than an idle curiosity. Sam looked uncomfortable and paused before speaking.

"I don't think so," she said. No, I don't think I can count on going back to the Milners'—ever again, she thought to herself. She wondered what Foyle would think of her cryptic answer. He was a detective—for all she knew, he had already figured out everything on his own.

Foyle responded with his usual sense of humor. "If you could stay awake just till we get there, I'd be grateful." What he wanted to say, but didn't, was, I hate to see you so uncomfortable. Please, can't I do something for you?

Later, when she saw Milner at the station, Sam apologized for what had happened.

"Sam! Don't worry, it wasn't your fault," he said, sounding more concerned for her than for himself. He was used to Jane's fits; Sam was not. "I invited you!"

She took a step closer to him, in case anyone could hear them.

"Did your wife understand… my situation?"

"Yes. Eventually." He snorted. "Where did you go?"

"Oh, I found somewhere," Sam said. "Just around the corner, actually," she added.

"Oh, that's convenient," he said.

"Very. But it's a temporary billet. I can't stay there long."

"Let me know if I can help you in any way," he said. "I know that my help didn't turn out to be worth much this time," he smiled sadly, "but I hate to think of you out on the street."

"Oh, I don't expect it will come to that," Sam said, cheerily.

"Good," Milner said, relieved. He had taken on too much by asking Sam to stay with him, and it was just as well that she was fine on her own.

A few hours later, Sam dropped Foyle off at his house on Steep Lane. They had passed a pleasant afternoon, of sorts, investigating the disappearance of a local journalist who appeared to have been dragged from the car where he was sleeping. Milner had not joined them, and Sam was pleased to have a bit of time to herself with Foyle. He was ever the professional, discussing nothing but the case while on duty, but she noticed how he took the time to teach her to "read" the scene in front of them for evidence. It was something that he had started to do of late, to teach Sam what to look for when they were at a crime scene. He had begun to do this even before Sam's father had shown up looking for her, before he had asked her in for a drink, before they had kissed. Sam had relished the attention that he paid her during these moments, the obvious care that he took to teach her well, and the pride that he exhibited when she reached a plausible conclusion. Had this, then, been the first sign of interest on his behalf? Had this been Foyle's way of making the two of them closer, as colleagues rather than superior officer and driver? Sam wondered at this now.

She was reluctant to mention to Foyle that she still hadn't found lodgings. To do so now, she thought, would make it look as if she were wrangling for an invitation, when he had had plenty of opportunities to offer to help her, and had not. So Sam stayed mum on the subject, and gave Foyle a rather stiff "good-bye" when they reached Steep Lane.

Foyle wondered at the change in her tone—not a week earlier, they had dined together in Eastborne and had shared not a few passionate kisses on the bonnet of the Wolseley—but he chalked it up to their not having had a moment alone together since then. He would soon remedy that, he thought.

"Is everything all right, Sam?" he asked cautiously.

She looked down at the steering wheel. "Yes, of course."

He grunted. "Really?" he asked, dubiously.

"Yes, why not?" she said.

"Because your house was bombed, your friend died, and it looks like you haven't been able to sleep in days. Anything else I forgot to mention? Are you having nightmares, Sam?" He said these last words softly, gently. He was concerned about her.

"Nightmares?" she asked, surprised. "No, not that."

"Then?"

"It's nothing, Mr. Foyle—"

He raised an eyebrow at her use of his surname.

"Hmm."

"…It's just… my friend and I, we had—an argument—and it is rather uncomfortable where I'm staying just now."

"I see," he said, removing his hat and placing it on his lap. "Sam—I didn't want to suggest this before—didn't want you to get the wrong idea—but you can stay with me for a few days, until the billeting office finds you something. What do you say?" He turned and smiled at her. He wanted to embrace her, there in the car, but Sam sat stiffly behind the wheel and had hardly looked at him. She sighed and he put his hand on hers.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Sam said. She appeared uneasy.

"Why not?"

"If my father ever found out—if anyone at the station ever knew—what would they say? I'd be back in Lyminster in a wink!" Her tone darkened considerably as she considered this outcome. "And then there's you, Mr. Foyle." She looked down and then up again. "I just don't know where things stand with you right now."

Foyle paused before answering. He knew that it was important for him to say the right thing, yet he was not sure of what she expected from him. Things had been different between the two of them ever since she had left her flat. The Hunter murder was turning out to be a complicated case, and they had not had the luxury of spending time together outside of work.

"Have your feelings changed towards me, Sam?" he asked, bluntly.

Now Sam was the one who didn't know what to say. She feared lest he had had a change of heart, and was trying to let her down easy. She sighed.

"Sam?" he asked again.

"I really don't know!" she said, loudly. "I don't know what is happening between us. My life is all turned upside down. I need some time alone—to think!"

"So what you're saying is—not everything is tickety-boo, eh?" he said, rather sarcastically.

"No, it's damn well not!" she retorted. "Sometimes I think I would have been better off going back with my father, after all. Then I wouldn't have been here when the bomb fell and I wouldn't have—" she stopped, abruptly.

"You wouldn't have what?" he asked, rather sternly.

"Nothing," she said. "I'm tired. I need to get going. Thank you for letting me off early today. I'll see you tomorrow, same time?"

"Sam," he said. "I don't regret your staying in Hastings. Is that what you thought?"

"I—I don't really know what to think or say, Mr. Foyle. Please, let me go now."

"Very well, then," Foyle said, opening his car door. "Get some rest."

"Good-bye, Sir," she said.

"Good-bye, Sam."

Soon after Foyle arrived home, there was a knock on his door. He thought that Sam might have changed her mind and come after him, but when he looked through the window, he saw that the Wolseley was nowhere in sight. Instead, Elizabeth Lewes was on his front steps. With a feigned smile, he opened the door. He was in no mood right then for the coming visit, but he could hardly turn her away. She was an old friend, after all.

"You said I could come and see you," she said, once he had invited her into the parlor.

"Yes," he admitted, impatient for the seeing to be over and done with.

"It seems so strange, seeing so much of you so suddenly, after such a long time," Elizabeth began.

Foyle was silent. He could not honestly respond that he was happy to see her, so he said nothing.

"How is the investigation?" she continued.

"It's coming along," he said tersely, forcing a smile. He wished that she would leave. There was nothing else for them to say to each other. He had accepted that, long ago.

Tentatively, Elizabeth spoke. "You don't think Mr. Hunter killed himself, do you? Do you think Mr. Paige had something to do with it?"

"Well, it's—it's—not impossible," Foyle equivocated. He had not asked her to sit down, hoping that the meeting would be short, and he remained standing to signal this wish.

"If America does come into the war, it will be at least partly due to him. He's terribly important, Arthur says."

"Have you told—Arthur—that you're here?" Foyle asked, reminding her that there was a third party of concern to both of them.

"No," Elizabeth admitted. "He's in London. In chambers."

How very convenient, Foyle thought. And so you come and visit me when your husband is away.

"You know who killed that poor man, don't you?" she continued.

"Is this why you have come here, to talk about this case?" he asked pointedly. He would prefer that she got on with the real purpose of her visit, rather than waste more time in idle chit-chat. His mind was still on Sam, and he wanted time to himself to think about what to do next.

"No, no, of course not," she said, flustered. "I-I came to see you."

I think I would have preferred to talk about the case, Foyle thought. At least then you might have told me something useful.

Elizabeth took the liberty of seating herself on the sofa. She went on, "I felt so—so—wretched, sitting at the dinner table, talking about the war, and America, and that peculiar doctor going on about supplies…."

Foyle waited.

"…When all I wanted, really, was to be alone with you."

Foyle did not quite know how to respond to this. He tried to control his face, but he couldn't help the grimace that escaped. He moved to sit down across from her, in his own chair.

"Elizabeth—" he started.

"How are you, Christopher?" she interrupted. "I mean—are you happy?"

He did not know what to say to this woman. How could he tell her that she had long ceased to be in any way responsible for his happiness—in fact, that she had refused such a responsibility? He suspected that her question had more to do with her own state than with his; he knew where he stood as far as happiness was concerned. Some days were more difficult than others, but several things had happened of late to make him believe, again, in the importance of life apart from work and war. He could not explain this to Elizabeth, nor did he want to. She had no right to come here like this, with her confessions masked as friendly concern.

"Well, uh—we're at war," he stammered, sticking to the impersonal. "And I do worry about Andrew."

"I'm not happy," she said.

It wouldn't take a detective to figure that out, Foyle thought, rather meanly.

"I have been married to Arthur for twenty years. It was our wedding anniversary, a week ago. He's been very kind to me—he's a very kind man. But I have never loved him." She paused, the sadness in her voice and in her face. Foyle could not help but feel sorry for her, despite himself. "Not even for a day." She stared intensely at him. "Not the way I loved you."

Foyle pursed his lips, waiting.

"There, I've said it!" Elizabeth exclaimed nervously. Foyle shook his head. She continued almost in a whisper, "Oh, I'm sorry, I sound like something out of Noël Coward." There were tears in her voice.

Foyle took pity on her. "And, uh, you never did like his plays, did you?" he joked. She laughed, bitterly.

"I was so sorry when I heard about Rosalind, really—I was. I wanted to write—I tried—but all the time, I kept thinking—after she died, maybe—you and I… I—I hoped—"

Foyle interrupted her. "You shouldn't be doing this," he said, embarrassed for her. "It was all far too long ago. It was all very different then—"

She cut him off: "Everything's different now!"

Foyle stood up, indicating that the conversation was over. "This was a mistake, Elizabeth," he told her firmly.

"No!" she responded, also standing. "I made the mistake years ago, I know that now. Can you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive. We were both very different people then." Good God, why didn't she just stop?

"You asked me to marry you," she reminded him, as if he could forget.

"Yes, and when your father refused permission for you to marry me, you married Arthur instead." He hated to be cruel, but he had to point out the facts to her. She had already made the decision, for both of them, and he would not turn back time now. Not after Rosalind, not after Sam… "And I understood then the very difficult position you'd been placed in."

"He—he gave me no choice!" she protested. "You don't understand!" Haven't I told you that I understood completely how difficult it was for you? he thought with frustration. What else do you want me to understand?

"Well, your father understood perfectly well, that a policeman's son was clearly not good enough, and I should never have asked."

Elizabeth looked stricken, defeated. "I couldn't go against him, Christopher. You knew that."

She had missed his point, entirely. He wasn't angry that she had jilted him; he was angry that she had come to him now, while her husband was away, to confess a longing for him that should have faded long ago. She must have dreamed up a fantasy of him all these years, while she was unhappily living with Lewes, he reflected. But the man he was now was not the starry-eyed boy of twenty-two who had wanted to marry Elizabeth Downs. Nor was he the man of her fantasy, as she soon made clear.

"You have grown very hard," she said, disappointed. Then she jabbed him where it hurt: "Was it Rosalind dying, that did that?"

"No," he said. He knew that he sounded hard to her; that had been his intention. He meant to give her no encouragement. "Losing her changed nothing." He took a deep breath. "Marrying her changed everything."

They both looked at each other.

"But you've got a good husband, and two wonderful sons. But the truth is: we should leave this exactly the way it is. And I'm sorry." He could not help but be moved, not by Elizabeth, but by the memory of his late wife.

"I'm the one who's sorry," Elizabeth said. "You're right, I shouldn't have come. I am so sorry, Christopher. …I want you to know," she said, stepping closer to him, "that barely a day has gone by, in all these years, when I haven't been sorry." She took one last, sorrowful look at him before turning to leave.

As she did so, Foyle looked at the photograph of Rosalind that he kept on the side table. An unexpected rush of sadness came over him, such as he had not felt in several years. The front door shut, and Elizabeth left. Foyle was alone again.

He had been absolutely honest with Elizabeth. Marrying Rosalind had changed his life, had changed who he was. He could not go back to being the man—boy, he corrected himself—that he was when he had fallen in love with Elizabeth. Nor could he go back to being the man he was before Rosalind had died. Her death, as well as her life, had changed him. Afterwards, he had thrown himself into his work, hoping to find some recompense or some distraction in being a superior sleuth. But work had never brought the professional recognition that he had hoped for, and had instead provided him with even more frustration and disillusionment. Nevertheless, if there was one thing he had learned from Rosalind, it was to keep looking forward and to welcome the surprising joys that life had to offer, no matter what sorrows it also brought.

Sam's appearance in his life was one such joy, for he had never imagined, at his age, that he would fall in love again, much less with a woman so much younger. But though Sam was young—or, perhaps, because she was young—she had a way of reminding him of the important things in life. Like hilarity and curiosity and a taste for mayhem; smiles and tea biscuits and "absolutely"; and the soft feel of her woman's body pressed against his, after years of intermittent celibacy.

Foyle sighed. He was completely smitten with his driver, against all his better judgment. He wondered what Hugh Reid would say if he knew. Moreover, he wondered what his son would think. Andrew would probably take some vicarious pleasure in the fact that I am stepping out with my young driver, Foyle thought, because he would see it as evidence of some sort of Foyle prowess. If only he knew that I have never been as active in that arena as he already is. And my intention—whatever Andrew might think—is not to seduce Sam, but to make her happy.

Startled, Foyle reflected on this last thought. He did want to make Sam happy—she certainly made him feel that way—but he was not certain that he could ever do so. She had flirted with him, welcomed his attentions, even—but would she ever want to marry him? The idea of marriage to Sam secretly thrilled him but he doubted that she would want the same. Sam was too young to tie herself down to an older man. She would want to see more of the world first, meet other men, perhaps travel or go to university. She would not see herself as someone's wife, at least not right away, and Foyle could not imagine offering her anything less honorable than marriage. It did not occur to him that Sam might be amenable to something else.

Foyle poured himself a glass of whisky. The solitary evening stretched before him, and he longed for the dull reverie of drink.