Chapter 9
Sam woke the next morning with a contented sigh, stretching and slowly coming to. Her eyes sprang open as she remembered the previous night and she smiled into her pillow. Hugging herself tightly, she gave a small laugh. I'm going to marry Christopher Foyle.
She laughed again at the shock and happiness she had felt last night. It was so obvious and yet she had been the last to believe it. All the years of telling herself to get over the things she felt, and now here he was, loving her and asking to spend the rest of their lives together.
He had no ring for her yet, explaining that Rosalind's ring was meant for Andrew. In his eyes she read the worry there and the unspoken words of, "If he makes it home…and what will he make of all this?" He wanted to find something that would suit her, he had said.
To spend everyday with him, Sam thought happily, sitting up — it's all my dreams coming true. It is like coming home at last; it feels so right.
Jumping out of bed, Sam went first to the window to see what type of day lay in store for them. She and Foyle were driving to Lyminster to see her parents. Foyle wanted to do things properly and speak with her father. It was the perfect day for it, warmer than yesterday and clear skies. Throwing on a pleasant, pale green dress, Sam let her curls fall across her shoulders.
It was Saturday; she would no longer be working for the police or with the MTC, and she and Foyle were going to be together the whole day. A good time to wear her new dress if ever there was one. It buttoned up the front and clung to her curves, only hanging more freely once it reached her hips. She spent longer than normal over her ablutions and setting her hair, finally giving herself a nod in the mirror. It would do.
She smiled at herself, enjoying being out of uniform and thinking back to the night before. He had been so sweet when he asked if she would marry him. Tears pricked the back of her eyes even now. She felt she was brimming over with happiness, and a silly grin seemed to be plastered on her face. They had sat talking the rest of the evening. It was gone eleven before Foyle realised she should be at home, in bed. He had gone with her in the Wolseley, kissed her with a chaste goodnight at the door, and walked home. Sam thought she would never sleep, but the days events and emotions had taken their toll and she'd fallen into bed, fast asleep within minutes.
And now they were headed into a new life together. She was sure her father wouldn't protest too much once he saw how happy she was. And even if he forbade it, she would marry Christopher anyway. Sam couldn't see a life without him — her detective.
She did, however, feel slightly nervous. Telling her parents and asking for their blessing should be easy, but she couldn't help wonder at their reaction. She shook these thoughts away as she drew up outside Steep Lane. Foyle was out of the door before she could even turn off the engine, suddenly beside her in the car, grinning like a schoolboy.
"Good morning, Christopher," she said, still enjoying the novelty of his given name on her tongue.
He leant over to kiss her, whispering, "Good morning, my dear. You look absolutely delectable."
She giggled and put the car into gear.
"You are still up for this?" she asked nervously.
Foyle crooked an eyebrow, "Certainly. I don't think your father will have me strung up. He seems a reasonable man."
She smiled at him. "Good. I can't wait for you to meet Mummy. She'll adore you."
Foyle ran a hand over his chin, smiling and contemplating her. "New dress, Sam?"
"Do you like it?"
"Very, um...yes, very much." He cleared his throat.
Risking a quick glance at him, Sam gave him a teasing look. "Do you now?"
"Let's focus on the road, shall we, Miss Stewart? I'd like to get there in one piece."
She grinned cheekily, tossing her curls over a shoulder. "As you wish…sir."
He breathed in sharply, turning to look out the window. Sam tried not to laugh. Distracting him is such a lovely game…
Foyle was, in fact, rather nervous himself. He remembered Iain Stewart to be fairly reasonable, but he had a stubborn streak in him, not unlike his daughter. He knew Sam wouldn't like to go against her father, so he hoped he would be able to convince the Rev. Stewart of his honourable intentions.
They arrived in Lyminster in time for elevenses, which Foyle shrewdly surmised to have been planned by Sam. Poor girl was always starving. He gave himself a little shake as they got out of the Wolseley, trying not to watch her as she walked so invitingly up the path. Where on earth had she found that dress? She must have saved up all her coupons. It suited her so well — he alternatively wanted to see it on her, looking so nice, and wanted it off her, revealing the source of her swaying hips and curves. Foyle shook himself again. Focus, man!
Rev. Stewart opened the door to the pair, smiling down at Sam warmly.
"Samantha, dear, come in, come in. Mr Foyle, how nice to see you."
Foyle shook hands with him, smiling.
"How are you, Father? And Mummy?"
"We are both well, my dear, thank you. It's very busy with the church at the moment, but your mother has been a great help. She's feeling much more herself lately."
They heard a female voice call out from the garden, and they made their way through the house towards it. Foyle felt his breath catch as the stunning lady came into view in front of him. She was beautiful; she had the same long, bronze curls as Sam, and held herself with authority. Her eyes crinkled at him, hidden laughter behind her lashes, putting him immediately at ease.
Taking off her gardening gloves, she said, "How do you do, Mr Foyle? We've heard so much about you."
He shook hands, "Very nice to meet you. Please, call me Christopher."
They moved from the garden into a sort of conservatory at the back of the house. It was warm, full of sunshine and roses. Rev. Stewart conjured up a small table and a few wooden chairs, inviting them to sit down.
"So, Christopher, what brings you to our humble parish?" Rev. Stewart began.
"Yes, Samantha was very vague on the telephone," Mrs Stewart broke in.
Sam blushed, giving Foyle a nervous smile. He returned the smile before facing the Stewarts.
"I've resigned from the Police force. I felt my services were no longer required, and I hope to pursue other work relevant to the war effort."
"I see," said Rev. Stewart, looking slightly puzzled. "So, Samantha will be driving your replacement?"
"No, sir. Er, we… um," Foyle cleared his throat.
"Sam and I have come to a realisation that we cannot be without each other. I love her, and she has led me to believe that love is returned. We would like your permission, and your blessing, to marry."
"Oh."
Sam's father looked first at Foyle, then at Sam, as if uncomprehending what had just been said. He frowned, looking even more confused. It was Mrs Stewart who came to the rescue.
"Well, I think it's marvellous. Congratulations to you both!" She stood, first kissing her daughter on the cheek, and then Foyle, giving his shoulder a squeeze.
"I hope you will both be very happy; which is perhaps silly to say, because I can already see how happy you both are."
Sam beamed, "You're a real brick, Mummy, thank you."
Foyle gave a slight half smile, looking at Rev. Stewart who still seemed to be in a state of shock. He'd taken his glasses off, rubbing them furiously on his grey cardigan, staring pointedly at the ground.
"Oh, Iain," Mrs Stewart said gently, "come on now."
He stood, jamming the glasses back on his face. Foyle saw the brightness of his eyes.
Holding out his hand, he said rather shakily, "It wasn't what I expected, but on reflection it makes perfect sense. I wish you both all the very best and hope that God will bless you."
Foyle stood and nodded, shaking the man's hand firmly.
"Look after her, Christopher," Rev. Stewart said, voice still strained.
"We will look after each other, sir. We always have."
Sam slipped an arm through Foyle's and he looked at her fondly. Mrs Stewart mirrored her, taking hold of her husband.
"Now, this calls for something special!"
"But Mummy, you don't have anything to drink here," said Sam.
Foyle suddenly remembered Rev. Stewart was a teetotaller. Shame, he thought, could use a drink…
Mrs Stewart winked, reminding Foyle forcefully of Sam. "I have some sherry I used for the W.I's trifle last month. I am sure your father can stand it on this occasion."
"Darling, it's not even twelve," said the Reverend aghast.
"It's only a bit of cooking sherry."
Rev. Stewart shook his head in defeat. "I think a cup of tea would be best for me, my dear," said the poor man, looking for all the world as if he couldn't make up his mind whether to cry or be happy.
Sam flew to him, throwing her arms around his neck. Foyle caught some of her fervent whispers.
"Oh do be pleased, Father, won't you? For me? I love him so much."
"I am, Samantha. I just didn't imagine you bringing home someone so much older than yourself."
"But it doesn't matter, Father. I love him more than life itself."
Rev. Stewart gulped, "I know it doesn't matter. And I am happy for you, dear girl. I am just a little overwhelmed." A few tears leaked out from his eyes.
Sam kissed his cheek.
"Are we all present and correct, then?" chirped Mrs Stewart, bearing a heavily laden tray.
"Let me," said Foyle, stepping in to help her, grateful for something to do.
Mrs Stewart poured the drinks and handed around tea cakes. Placing a cup of the strongest looking tea Foyle had ever seen in Rev. Stewart's hands, she said to him firmly but gently, "I've put two sugars in. Now do smile, dear."
He nodded absently.
"Better an older man's darling, than a younger man's slave," quoted Mrs Stewart matter-of-factly in her husband's ear.
He took a hurried sip of his tea.
Foyle took Sam's hand, giving it a small squeeze. "I love you," he mouthed, smiling.
She raised her small glass of the horrible looking cooking sherry. "To us."
"Now, Christopher, I see you still need to sort the matter of the ring," Mrs Stewart said cheerfully, eyes twinkling.
"Er…"
"I have just the thing, if you don't mind me putting my nose in."
"Well," Foyle twitched his lips and looked at Sam, "it is up to Sam. I don't mind."
"Lovely! Samantha, why don't we go have a look, and leave the men for a moment."
The two golden haired ladies rose and left the men, both looking anywhere but each other.
Finally, Foyle cleared his throat, "Thank you for your blessing, sir. It means the world to Samantha, and for that I am grateful."
Rev. Stewart looked rather pale and nodded his head. "Well, it wasn't what I had in mind for my daughter, but she seems so happy that I cannot deny her…how did this happen, Christopher?"
Foyle heard the underlying tone in his voice and saw the worry in the man's face.
"Purely by chance," he said simply. "We worked together for years, became close through that work, and one day realised it was more than we had imagined."
"And have you…" Rev. Stewart looked positively ill now, "You are a gentleman, Christopher, and I expect you to treat my daughter with the respect she deserves."
"I have always, and will continue to, respect Samantha, sir. You have my word."
Rev. Stewart sighed with relief. "Well, that's settled then."
He smiled weakly, taking another sip of his strong tea. "I always worry for Samantha you see, Christopher. She is so headstrong, and I never know what she will do next. There are so many temptations in this world sent to test us."
Foyle was saved from answering by the return of Sam and her mother. Sam sat next to him, taking his hand. He felt something small drop in to his palm. Looking down he saw there lay a silver ring, with small, pale stones set neatly into it.
"It was my grandmother's apparently," said Sam eagerly. "What do you think?"
Foyle picked it up gently, admiring it. He smiled at Sam, taking her hand deftly in his, slipping the ring on her finger.
"If you'll have me," he whispered.
She leant over and kissed his cheek. "Yes."
Mrs Stewart clapped her hands. "Brilliant, well now that is all sorted, let's have lunch and finally get to these drinks."
Sam grinned, raising her glass, "What shall we toast to then?"
She caught his eye, and Foyle felt he could overcome anything from the strength radiating there alone. He saw the happiness twinkling there, dancing and alive in her face. The feeling in his chest swelled and he swallowed hard. Raising his own glass, "To you, my dear Sam."