Up with the Lark, Ch. 14

Author's note:

I know this part has been a long time coming! Hopefully it is worth the wait. A (very) mature section follows; please stop reading now if you are underage or if you don't like the Sam/Foyle combination.

Dad:

Of course I'll help you, in any way I can, not just for Connie's sake, but because I don't want us to keep being angry at each other. I know that I am not an easy person to have as a son, and I suppose I should also say that I am sorry for the things I said to you about Sam. I jumped to conclusions, but you can hardly blame me, can you? I'll wait until we can talk in person to hear the rest of your story. These things are better said in person.

I hope that Sam is all right here in Hastings. Do look out for her, and don't let her keep poking her nose in other people's business. It's not fair to use her as your spy; there must be others who can do that work for you. She's a nice girl and she deserves better.

Andrew

Sitting at his desk in the station, Foyle read the brief note for the third time that day. He should have known that Andrew would regret his words, once spoken, but it was rare for him to receive such a frank apology from his son. What was more concerning to him was Andrew's advice about Sam. Although Foyle wasn't sure if he meant to say that Sam should stop spying on him or should just stop spying altogether, Foyle had to admit that he was having second thoughts about Sam's undercover position at the fuel depot. If Connie's murder was at all related to the missing fuel levels, then Sam could be in quite serious danger if the murderer found out that she had been planted there to keep an eye on things.

Although Foyle frequently had to remind himself that Sam was just his driver, the idea that she could be harmed while on a job—on a job that he had placed her on—was enough to make him want to march right in to Bexhill and pull her out. The only trouble was, he didn't want to blow their cover just yet, and he also didn't know how Sam would react to a sudden removal. She would probably think that I don't trust her, he thought, or that she's doing a bad job. Hah! Quite the contrary… she's doing such a good job that I've learned more than I ever would have otherwise, enough to know just how much danger she is in…

Foyle was too late.

Even as he re-read Andrew's letter and contemplated removing Sam from Bexhill, Sam was knocking frantically at the door of the main office at the depot, trying to get out. She had managed to open the office safe and steal the requisition orders, but before she could leave the office with the slips, someone had entered. Sam hid under the desk as the stranger deposited a suitcase on the table. By the time she realized that she was locked in, the timer on the bomb was already ticking.

It can't be! Sam thought. Curse it! Another bomb!

And then, I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die in the middle of a war because of an ordinary criminal. Damn it all!

Sam did the only thing she could do in this situation. She reached for the telephone and dialed the office number of Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle.

Foyle was about to leave when he got the call.

"What do you mean, you're stuck in the office?" he asked her, scarcely believing what she was telling him. A bomb? Again? Sam stuck in the depot office? It sounded like some kind of sick joke, or the plot to an American movie.

"I'm locked in," Sam said breathlessly. "And it looks as if it's going to go off pretty soon!"

"Soon? How soon?"

"Ten minutes, I'd say, Sir."

"Well, get out of a window—break a window!" He knew that she must have already considered her alternatives, or she wouldn't have called him in such a panic, but he desperately wished that there were something else that she could do.

"I'll try," Sam said.

"And if you can't do that, you get behind something solid. Lie flat behind a desk or a table or something…"

"But in case I can't—I want you to know—" Sam started.

He interrupted her brusquely —"I'm on my way!"—then slammed down the phone and went to find Sergeant Thwaites, the constable who liaised with the bomb squad.

Sam did as Foyle had instructed her, pulling over a table and crouching behind it with her hands over her head, waiting for the blast.

She was a bundle of fear and hope. Every minute that passed was another minute closer to the explosion, another minute closer to death. She thought of how long it would take for the police to reach her from the station, and concluded that the drive was probably more than ten minutes. So she would die, then. She would die there in a miserable little office in a minor fuel station outside of Hastings, far from her family and friends, and just minutes away from being rescued by a man who—she could not deny it, could not stand to push him away, even if it was just in her mind—she loved more than any other.

Surely ten minutes have passed by now, Sam thought. Why hasn't it gone off yet? It dawned on her that there might still be time. And then she knew that if there was time, if she wasn't going to die, then it meant that she had to stop pretending that things were all right as they were. She had to be honest with Christopher, even if it meant her being sacked and returning to Lyminster and her parents' home. With the clarity of the dying, Sam saw everything. She saw how afraid they both were of what others would think, and how foolish those fears were. She saw how young she must seem to him, but even as she thought of her youth she realized that she was not an innocent any longer, not now that she was face to face with death and with this terrible, horrible truth that she loved a man who might not love her back and—this was the worst—might not ever know how much she cared for him. She vowed, as she huddled and waited for the bomb to go off, that if she got out of there alive, she would declare herself to him. She would not let any of this foolishness continue. If she got out alive…

It seemed to take forever for the bomb disposal officer to break the lock to the office. Foyle silently willed the man to work more quickly, and when the lock finally fell to the floor he was the first to push into the office, her name on his lips.

She ran towards him, then past him, through the open door. He followed right after her, his hand on her back, pushing her as far away from the office and the bomb as possible. The two bomb disposal experts remained behind to defuse the explosive.

Foyle did not want to lose contact with Sam. He moved his hand from her back to her wrist, pulling her along, out to the car park. He could sense her ragged breathing and feel the rapid beat of her pulse; she was afraid, of course she was afraid, Foyle reminded himself. When he finally let her go, in the car park, the abruptness of the separation was heart-wrenching. He was reminded that he very nearly had lost her forever, there in the office. What a daft, stupid woman! he thought to himself. Does she have any idea what would have happened—how I would have felt—if she had died?

His fears at these thoughts were so great that he could only respond with anger.

"What on earth do you think you were doing?" he asked her, pacing back and forth. "Really!" He hardly dared look at her for fear that he would do something to her, though he hardly knew what. Curse at her? Turn his back on her? Kiss her? All of the options frightened him.

Chastised and ashamed, Sam defended herself as best she could. "I just wanted to get these," she said, summoning professional calm and holding out the requisition slips.

"These? What are they?"

"Requisition orders," she said. "They were in the safe." He took them from her and nodded, as if to say This is all very well, and you may have got the evidence, but there's no excuse for putting yourself in such danger.

"It was just totally irresponsible!" he said angrily. "You could have got yourself killed!" Sam cast down her eyes. There was anger in his voice, and something else—fear?

"Well, whoever it was didn't know that I was in there, Sir," she offered.

"You didn't see anything at all?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not," she said with regret. He looked at her carefully, about to ask her something else, but they were interrupted.

One of the sappers came up to them, carrying the suitcase. He opened it and displayed its contents to them, explaining how the bomb's timer had been faulty. "It should have gone off ten minutes ago, Miss," he said. Foyle thanked the other man curtly, then turned to Sam. As usual, she already had some ideas about who might have planted the bomb (O'Halloran, the Irishman who worked at the depot) and why he might have done so (IRA connections). It is so like Sam, Foyle thought. She has almost been blown up—for the second time—and all that she can think about is work!

"Are you all right?" he asked her, softly. "Are you all right?" he asked again.

"I think so, Sir," she said. "Look, I'm really sorry." She looked at him hopefully, asking forgiveness.

His anger had passed. Sam was too much like him, he reflected: the work was more important than her own safety, and nothing he could say would convince her otherwise. The only thing he could do was to make sure that she didn't go out as a spy again—that, and insist that she remain by the Wolseley whenever he went into a dangerous situation. But despite these measures, Foyle knew that he could not really protect Sam. It was a dark and violent time, and even when peace came, police work would always be hazardous. Hell, even living is hazardous, Foyle thought. Rosalind… The best he could do was to be honest with himself and with Samantha.

He took a deep breath. "Well, not as sorry as I'd have been if you'd been killed," he stated gravely, hoping that she would catch his drift. "The sergeant's a terrible driver!" he added, with a grin, defusing the seriousness of the situation and allowing her more time to think over his words before she responded to them.

Sam knew what he wanted to say, and she knew why he had followed his admission of concern with a joke; it was too frightening for both of them to contemplate life without the other, and so the fear was swept aside by Foyle's dark humor about needing a better driver. There would be time later to talk about what it all meant, to both of them, but for now they had to get back to the station. There was still a case to solve, after all. And there was still Andrew; Foyle reminded himself to speak with his son the next day.

Sam was relieved to get back to the old routine again. No sooner had she reached the station, than she found one of her spare WTC uniforms and donned it again, swearing to herself that she'd never where another one-piece jumpsuit again. She hardly saw Foyle for the rest of the day, but she made sure to linger near his office door when it was near closing time, so that he would notice that she was waiting to drive him home.

Late that evening, Sam and Foyle sat in silence as she drove them back from the station house.

"May I come in, Sir?" Sam ventured when they arrived at Steep Lane. She had never invited herself in before, but then again, she had never been so certain of what she must do.

Foyle looked at her in surprise.

"Sam?" He raised an eyebrow.

"There are things I want to talk about… may I just come in for a few minutes?"

He nodded, then opened his door and made his way up his front steps. Sam, stunned that he had acquiesced, followed him seconds later. He had unlocked the door by the time she climbed the stairs, and he motioned her in.

As she handed her coat to Foyle, Sam felt her breathing quicken in anticipation of what she had come to do. He noticed her heavy breathing and looked at her sharply.

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

"Yes—I mean, no, Sir, I mean—may I just sit down a moment? I think I shall feel better then." Her face was pale and he feared that she might faint. No wonder, Foyle thought, she has had quite a shock today. He put his fingers to his brow in remembrance of the afternoon: the phone call, the mad dash to the depot, the relief at seeing her still alive, the flush of her face as he had ushered her out of the office. I have had a shock too, he reminded himself.

"May I bring you some tea, Sam?" he asked gently, taking her by the arm and leading her to the living room. She eased herself into an armchair and made to release herself from his grasp, but he held on to her wrist, reluctant to let her go. The light was very low and the room felt small and close.

"Mr. Foyle?" Sam looked up at him, eyes wide with puzzlement.

"I'm sorry," he said, letting her hand go.

"You said—" she began. "You said that you would be sorry if anything had happened to me at the fuel depot…" She trailed off, unable to continue.

"I said that you were not nearly as sorry for your actions as I would be, had you been killed," he corrected her almost sternly. Looking down at her, Foyle noticed how small Sam suddenly looked, how large her eyes were in her wan face.

"Yes," she said, blushing. "But you can't know how sorry I truly am." Her voice was so plaintive, her regret so obvious, that Foyle felt compelled to comfort her. He bent his knees and crouched before her, so that they were at eye level again.

Foyle took both her hands in his. "I know, Sam," he said, looking straight into her eyes.

His gaze was so direct, so searching, that she felt that she must turn her head away, but she willed herself to keep her eyes on his. The weight of his hands on hers was unexpected, to say the least, and she was overcome by his sudden proximity, the scent of his cologne, the expression of concern and love in his eyes. He had looked at her this way before; she remembered when she had noticed it for the first time, that evening when they had dined together at Carlo's. But it had been too long—weeks, perhaps months—since he had looked at her that way. She had feared that he would never look at her that way again.

Sam wished that he would lean forward and kiss her. She longed to do the same to him, but she would not act until she knew how he felt.

Emboldened by his closeness, Sam began the speech she had planned, speaking rapidly and all at once, willing him to remain silent until she was done.

"I know that you know more about some things than I do—and I know that we agreed that I'd go back to being your driver and nothing more, but I do want to be with you—and not as just your driver—and I don't care what people think—and I don't care how that makes you think of me." She glared at him as he seemed about to speak, then rushed on, afraid that if she stopped she would not be able to resume. "I just know that… I had to say something to you about it, after today. The only thing that I could think of when I was waiting for the bomb to go off was how awful and tragic it would be—how bloody sentimental, really—if I died and I never got the chance to tell you how much I—" she stumbled on the words. "—How much I love you." She paused. "So there it is."

Sam sat back in the chair, exhaling loudly. She covered her face with her hands, astonished that she had said so much. They sat in silence for half a minute; then Foyle spoke.

"Sam?" he asked, gently. "Sam?" He began to pry her fingers away from her face, but she kept her eyes firmly closed, as if she could ignore him because she could not see him. "Sam, look at me," he pleaded. She opened her eyes and he saw that she was on the verge of crying.

"Samantha," he said. "We—I need—what I mean to say is—we need to talk." He released her and rocked back on his heels. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then looked away from him, ashamed to catch his eyes.

"No," she said softly. "I've said what I came here to say." She stood and began to walk, but he caught her shoulders and led her back to the chair.

"You haven't let me answer you," he said, taking a deep breath. "Sam, I—I know how you feel. And please be assured that I never wanted any harm to come to you. Not as my driver, not as my friend, and not as my—"

Foyle stopped suddenly, as if he had said too much. She was looking at him with curiosity and he was tempted to say what was in his mind, but he held himself back. Because I don't know what's in my mind, he thought. I don't know what she would think if I called her my girl, or my lover, or my wife. And I never thought we'd be having this conversation. But—God, I want her. However she'll have me.

"Sir?" she asked, sensing that she was losing him to his reverie.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't know where to begin." He smiled at her, and when she saw his face she knew that things would be right between them again.

"You could begin by telling me that I didn't make a royal fool of myself just now!" she exclaimed.

"No, not a fool. Not that, Sam," he joked. "Stubborn, and capricious, and altogether too knowledgeable for your own good—but not a fool. I know you're waiting for me to tell you what I think."

"Yes," she said. He peered at her, almost sternly. How could she seem even more beautiful now, with tears still wet on her cheeks, than he had ever seen her before? He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he knew that it was more important to say the words first.

"I can't lose you again," he began.

"Wha—?" she started, confused by his meaning.

"I can't risk losing you again, not to a bomb, not to your parents, not to a transfer. And certainly not to another man." He stood and turned away from her, moving towards the sideboard. She remembered the first time they had shared an evening in that room, and how he had moved towards the same sideboard when she had first confessed to feeling something more for him. He had been overcome with emotion then, even as he seemed to be now. Sam understood, with new tenderness, that he was turning away not because he wanted to leave her, but because he was so unaccustomed to stating his feelings outright. This is difficult for him to say, she thought. He's—he's actually nervous!

"Sam, I need you to know some things about me. Before I say anything more. And certainly before you agree to something you shouldn't agree to, if you don't know me as well as you ought."

"Yes?" Now she was smiling up at him, with that expression that seemed to say, You ninny! Get on with it!

"Remember how I went ahead and investigated Andrew, after Connie died? And how I learned—I know you didn't want to tell me, but it didn't matter, Sam, I would have learned it anyway—I learned about him stepping out with Violet?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"And did you know that I scolded him for not treating her better? For taking her to some run-down hotel, as if she were cheap? She thought he was going to marry her."

"Yes, she mentioned it to me," Sam said. Then she added hastily, "The part about marrying Andrew, I mean."

"Well, I'm sure the other part isn't too much of a surprise. You know what Andrew is like. You know it, and I know it, and I've never liked it, myself, how he treats women. But that's not the point. The point is, he accused me of being a hypocrite—not in so many words, but he told me that he had seen something between the two of us."

"He saw something?" Sam asked, her mouth agape.

"Yes. That night you stayed here. He was coming home—I didn't know he was on leave, of course, or I wouldn't have invited you here, I would have thought of some other thing—"

"There's always the Reids'," Sam said under her breath.

"—but yes, Sam, he did see something. He was passing through the courtyard, coming around to the back door, and he looked through the window and saw us. In the kitchen. You were drying the dishes and I came up and—"

"Stop!" Sam said. "I know what he saw!" Her expression was doleful. "What did he say?"

"He implied that I was abusing my position as your superior officer."

"The nerve!" she said. "Did you explain to him?"

"I tried to; of course I tried to explain. But he didn't believe me, not at first. I think he's come around now—we've had several letters back and forth, he's still up at the base, but I think things will be all right."

"What else did he say?" Sam asked.

"He said that you deserved better." He looked at her from across the room. "And you do deserve better, Sam. You deserve better than to be working for the man you're in love with when he doesn't have the courage to declare himself to you."

For once, Sam didn't know what to say. Is he about to propose? she asked herself. Or was that the proposal? Did I miss something? She could hear the rise and fall of her breath as she nervously picked at a loose thread on her uniform.

"I'm sorry to be so thick, but could you tell me exactly what you mean?"

"I mean—" he moved away from the sideboard, stepping towards her again. He knelt beside her and gathered her hands in his. "I mean, Samantha Stewart, that I love you, and I will marry you." He looked up at her.

"Oh!" murmured Samantha, shocked despite her premonitions. She hadn't known that a proposal would sound like this. But she knew what she would do, though she didn't know what he would think of her response.

She leaned down, as slowly as she could manage, and kissed his lips. Then she pulled away and sat back up.

"Thank you for that," she said.

"For what?" he asked. He wanted to kiss her again, and again, and he wanted to keep her right there in his house, forever and ever. He wanted her to say yes.

"For saying that you want to marry me."

"Yes, yes, I do!" he said emphatically. "But when? How soon, do you think?"

"Well, you haven't exactly asked me, have you?"

He looked at her, startled, not quite understanding. "What—because I said—"

"You said that you will marry me. But you didn't ask me, not outright." He opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off, with surprising speed, with a kiss. Pulling away, she whispered, "Don't say anymore."

"Sam—I'm sorr—"

"Shhh. I'm not upset. Just—don't say it. Don't say anything." She kissed him more deeply, passionately, sucking at his lips and pulling at his tongue. She wasn't about to let him stop her, either. Softly she chanted, "Just—kiss me. Christopher. Christopher. Christopher. Kiss me. Yes. Yes. Yes, that's it…"

His hand was in her hair, loosening her pins. She felt the release of tension as her scalp tingled and her locks came loose. He used his hands to keep her in place, to pin her down and let him kiss her back with the same intensity with which she had kissed him.

They had kissed before, and every time had been delicious, but this time was different. Sam knew why—it was different because, this time, they weren't going to stop. This time she was going to urge him on until he lost his senses and took her, there on the rug or on the settee. She could sense the urgency in him and was certain that he wouldn't end things early this time. Yet there were still those compunctions of his…those pesky "principles."

But Sam had been embarrassed enough for one evening. She wasn't going to let herself be turned down by Christopher Foyle again; there wasn't time for such nonsense. There was a war on, and criminals all around them, it seemed, and more men than she could count had already died, and more would die, and it was all just so meaningless and futile. All of it was, except this. Except for Christopher, who had now pulled her down from the chair to lie on top of him on the floor, continuing their kisses.

Foyle glanced around, and she realised that he was looking for the quilt that had covered the settee. Grabbing it before he had the chance, she spread it beside them and helped him to roll onto it.

"I want you," she said, between kisses. Her boss murmured her name in assent. She began to loosen the knot at her tie. His eyes widened and she hushed him, whispering, "I'm just making myself more comfortable—I can hardly breathe," before loosening his tie. And then she was—No, she can't be, Foyle thought. But she was. Sam was undressing, working first at the large buttons on her jacket. Her voice appeared to have dropped an octave as she excused herself: "This thing is terribly thick, don't you think?" Without much ado she flung the jacket aside, then reached up to open the top button of her blouse. "I'm still feeling a bit warm." Foyle grasped her hands but she turned away, pinning him with her knees and sitting down on him more firmly.

And then she felt his arousal, right under her bum. She almost jumped up in surprise until she realized what she was feeling and reminded herself not to panic. When did that happen? She thought. Just now? While we were kissing?

And then they were kissing again, and she lay back down upon him, the weight of her entire body on his, and she still could feel him hard against her. But this time he was right at the join in her legs, and she could imagine what would happen if she just lifted her skirt, yes, just a little. And removed her blouse, like this. Would he like that?

He did like that. He very much liked the sight of Samantha Stewart in her brassiere and skirt, sitting on top of him. He liked it so much that he did not protest, either, when she sat back down again, rubbing not-so-demurely against him with her silk knickers, her skirt bunched up around her hips.

By this time he—or was it Sam?—had removed his shirt, and she was playing with the hair on his chest, and he was moaning, and it was too late to do anything, too late at all. Even if he had wanted to act, he knew that he was done for.

Sam's brassiere was the next garment to go. Her nipples caught the dim light of the room and he wanted to touch her, God, how he wanted to touch. She hesitated a second before bringing his hands up to cup her breasts. She knew what would happen next, knew that he was supposed to feel her and she was supposed to feel him back. And it all felt so good, and she couldn't believe that she hadn't tried this before, this touching and sucking and cooing and—what was that? Was that his hand, creeping up and under her skirt? Cupping her rear, grazing softly over the roundest part, then moving fabric aside and reaching up to unfasten her skirt—How does he know how to do that?—and pushing her up, urging her to stand so that he could pull the skirt down and off of her.

Now. Now she was back on top of him, recklessly kissing his face, his cheeks, his neck, burying herself in his hair, smelling him and feeling him and tasting him and hearing him. Yes, she was hearing him: the racing pulse in his chest, the sharp breaths, the little gasps he gave as she took his ear in her mouth and delicately traced its edge. He was crying out now, crying her name and grabbing her hips and now he wanted her. She noticed another difference about this time. He had committed himself to this, committed himself to her. She knew it was too late for him to say no, too late for him to push her off and send her away.

Now there was no turning back.

Sam fumbled at her suspender belt, releasing nylon from the clips. She stood up again to take off her knickers, facing away from Foyle. All he could see were the round curves of her bottom as she slid her stockings down, then turned to join him again on the floor, deliberately sitting back from him so that he could not touch her as she helped him out of his trousers and his pants.

Sam braced her hands on his chest and pushed him to the floor again.

She was never sure how she managed the next part all by herself.

Foyle lay back on the quilt and followed Sam's movements with his gaze. He could not tear his eyes from her. Now she was coming closer—another kiss—and now she was lifting her hips, and he could see the dark patch between her legs. She put one hand there, touching herself, and then she was touching him, and he could feel that her fingers were moist on his penis, and he almost came right there, with this headstrong virgin playing at him with her hands. He almost came but he didn't, because he had accepted that she was seducing him, and really, it was much more enjoyable to watch her do these things, to see how her expression changed when she figured out something. For instance, the look on her face when she touched herself and her fingers came out wet and he knew that she was in awe because for the first time she understood why that wetness was there; and when she looked down at him and touched his penis again and it was easier, this time, to pull gently at it, to grip it by the head and squeeze and squeeze and then—

"Sam!" he gasped. "Stop!" He grasped her waist and, before she could protest, before she even understood what he was about to do, he had rolled her over and was kissing at her breasts and then down to her navel. And then he was kissing further, and she really could not keep back a scream then, or maybe it was just a cry, and Samantha Stewart would never remember what kind of noise she made because he was licking and nipping and kissing her, right there between the legs, where no man in his right mind would ever, ever want to go—at least, this is what she had thought before, when she had thought about this at all, before her mind had told her to stop those kinds of thoughts, after all she was a vicar's daughter—but her lover was there. And it felt glorious. Just glorious. As if she were being stretched out and put together again and all of the nerves in her body were moving, moving, moving towards that one spot between her legs, which had become the only place in the entire universe. And best of all, it was Foyle who was doing this to her, Foyle the man she loved, Foyle the man she—

Sam Stewart could not think anymore. She could only feel, and it was good. And then, it was over, the waves tumbling through her and away from her and Samantha felt so calm and so certain that this was not just good but it was right and it was wholesome and how could she have ever thought differently?

He heard her cry out again, a deeper, throatier cry, almost as if she were in pain, and he eased the pressure so that she could come down easily. Her cries turned into yips and then she panted his name and grabbed feebly at his hair. When he moved up beside her to kiss her mouth and his fingers explored her, she still pulsed from her climax. He spread her lips apart and allowed himself in.

Now, this was interesting. This was very, very interesting. Sam could feel herself stretching to accommodate his penis. She needed to move too, she realized. If she just lifted her hips a little, then he would be—there. There he was, fully inside her, and she noticed that it did not feel strange, just unfamiliar. It felt as if she had been waiting for this without even knowing that she was lacking it. And then he was moving inside her, he was actually moving… it was really happening. His arms were around her and she thought she should put hers around him too, so she did, and then she could not stop trying to bring him into her deeper and deeper. She wrapped her legs around his back in a tight embrace, but in that position she couldn't move as well, so she lowered her legs and lifted her hips again, pushing towards him.

At first their rhythm was irregular, but still Sam kept pushing, until Foyle grabbed her and forced her still. He moved inside her with slow and regular strokes, making sure that she could anticipate his motions, until he released her and let her join in the dance. She felt thrilled to think that she was surrounding him, and she kept reminding herself that he was in her, he was actually inside her, and she, Samantha Jane Stewart, was no longer a virgin, in fact she had done any number of things and had let him do things to her that no virgin would ever do, and even though she was spent from his kisses, she liked this part, too. She liked seeing the sweat form on his brow as he concentrated on his movements and on her position underneath him. She liked knowing that she was giving him pleasure, as he had given it to her. She liked the way he said her name, over and over again, as he built up to his orgasm, and she liked the way he stroked her hair when it was all done. Except it wasn't done, because he'd said that he wanted to marry her, and even though she had thought she wouldn't know what to say, now she had a better idea of what marriage could be like, with him, and perhaps it was something that she might want, after all.

"Christopher?" she said groggily, as he rested his face in her neck afterwards.

"Yes, my love?" he asked. He was still inside her and he was worried, now, about the mess and about Sam and about the consequences, yes, those consequences, they hadn't used any of those methods, and she still had not said if she would have him or not…

"I think we need to do this again."

"Er—"

"Otherwise, there's no way to be sure."

"To be sure?" he asked, raising his head and furrowing his brow slightly.

"Yes, silly." She kissed his nose. "I mean, this was my first time, after all. No way to be sure if it's a fluke."

He gaped at her.

"Maybe it doesn't happen all the time," she continued. He stared at her quizzically.

"What doesn't?"

"You know…." She wriggled purposefully underneath him. "That thing that happened, when you kissed me—there." She waved in the general direction of her hips.

"You think that was a fluke?" he asked, astonished.

"There's only one way to find out," she said mischievously.

"What will I do with you, Samantha Stewart?" he responded.

"Marry me," she said.

"You will?" he asked.

"No, you goose. You will marry me. Isn't that what you said earlier?"

"Rrright." He sighed.

"How soon?"

"Err—hadn't really—next month?"

"No, I mean, how soon can we do this again?" She laughed at his expression.

"As soon as you'll let me accompany you to the bedroom," he said urbanely, standing with her.

"After you," she said.

"No, my darling," he said, bowing to kiss her hand. "After you."

Nota bene

I am leaving room for the possibility of an epilogue here, but given how long it has taken me to get down to writing this chapter, I can't promise that I'll add much more at this point. So I'm posting the story as "complete". Hope that you enjoyed it! It has been wonderful for me to write it. I feel like I've learned a lot as a writer over the course of this saga, and I especially want to thank my friends and readers Treva Rea and Dancesabove (the best editor out there!).

Foyle's War is only the second canon that I have written for-the first one, Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters, takes place in quite a different era, with a different style. I find it has been easier to write a continuation of a TV series (like Foyle's War) than a book (like W&D), because so much of the physical descriptions of the characters, as well as their mannerisms and expressions, have already been conveyed through the medium of television. You readers know what I mean when I say that Foyle's mouth twitches, or that Sam has a cheery disposition, or that he sounds stern when talking to Andrew, because the show's writer, director, and actors have made them that way. Though I understand some people's reluctance to see the characters stray too far from the canon, I have found it delightful to see how far I can stretch the characters' thoughts and behaviors without making them unrecognizable. I love "filling in the blanks" and painting the little, ordinary scenes of their lives, as well as imagining the grand love affair between Foyle and Sam that we never saw on television. And I persist in thinking that, if viewers see some kind of tension between the two on the screen, then it really must be there, even if Horowitz denies it. A work of art always goes beyond the intentions of its creator, because every person who contemplates it brings his or her own experiences to bear in its interpretation (look up "intentional fallacy" or "intention and semiotics" on Wikipedia to read more about this idea, which is not my own but with which I very much agree!). I think that the Sam/Foyle pairing has been so popular, in part, because there are hints of sexual tension between the two characters in television, but also because they fit the literary trope of the older, experienced man and the younger, innocent but still eager, woman. We have seen a similar relationship between Mr. Rochester and Jane Eyre (Jane Eyre); John Jarndyce and Esther Summerson (Bleak House); Jo March and Professor Baehr (Little Women); among others. While I am tempted to refer to Freud and the Elektra complex, or to evolutionary psychology, regardless of how May-December romances come about, the fact is that many readers are intrigued by this trope. Fan fiction is one way for me to explore my own interest in this particular kind of relationship, without being compelled to enter into a May-December romance myself! (Besides, Michael Kitchen seems to be very happily partnered himself, and is an ocean away in jolly old England).

In writing a fiction based on television, I also feel less bound to write in any one style, because there is no written text to base my writing on anyway. But this section here has been difficult for me nonetheless, in part because the more I wrote about Sam and Foyle together, the more conflicted their relationship seemed to become. I became more aware of the characters' own limitations—Foyle's emotional restriction, Sam's impulsiveness—and how they would impact any relationship that they could have together. Nevertheless, I still think that it is possible, even if many viewers of FW would shudder at the idea of a 50+ year old man with a much younger woman. I have been reading other works of fiction that take place in the 1940s and they are certainly frank in talking about people's sex lives, reminding me that in every era there were people who bucked against society's conventions. And I think that wartime has always been a sort of liminal time, when rules are broken because they don't seem so important anymore when death is constantly looming in the background.

That said, I have been thinking a lot about why I take the trouble to write these kinds of fics, when I remind myself that my time might be (better?) spent working on my dissertation or reading more "serious" fiction. I think that there are many things that draw me to fan fiction, but most of all I find that I get so caught up in the characters' love affairs that I almost feel as if I were also falling in love! That's a delightful, vicarious pleasure, one that I am happy to prolong by reading and writing fan fiction.

If you read and/or write fan fiction, and have any more thoughts on why you like to do so, I'd love to hear them. Call it an informal study on the psychology of the fan fiction reader/writer; let me know what moves you to read and write these pieces!

Best,

Emma