L'Aimant

Summary:

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

It's the morning of the wedding in two households.

Disclaimer:

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

Author's Note:

Merivale, Sam's bohemian landlady, belongs to dancesabove, as does the excellent beta-work on this chapter.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

Iain hauled himself to his feet, and swayed as the sudden gain in height disturbed his alcohol-befuddled sense of balance. "Well then, embattled Christopher, since my daughter isn't here to do the honours this time, I had better get you up to bed." He reached a half-unsteady hand to pull Foyle up out of his chair.

Foyle's mouth took on an impish curve as he reached up to grasp the proffered hand. "Iain, you asked me a blunt question last Saturday, so it's only fair I get to ask you the same one now: How old are you?"

"I'm sixty-two."

"How old is Geraldine?"

"She's forty-eight."

Foyle tutted archly through his smile: "That's quite a gap between your ages, Iain. I trust that Geraldine wasn't influenced in her choice of you by awe of your position as a cleric."

Though Iain towered over Christopher, he took the jibe in good part. "Well, you've met my wife," he said. "How much in awe d'you think she is of me or of my calling?"

"I think… we may have certain things in common, you and I," said Foyle. "And there'll be times when… maybe we should stick together."

Chapter 14

Saturday, 16th December 1944, 7 a.m.

The groom awoke with an uncomfortably dry mouth that reminded him he'd narrowly escaped a devil of a hangover. The significance of the day ahead gradually penetrated his brain as he emerged from sleep, and his hand explored the mattress to his left, languidly conjuring Samantha in the place that, by this afternoon, would be her legally sanctioned spot. Contented with that thought, he sank his face into the pillow alongside him, breathing in the scent of her that lingered from Thursday morning—the last time Sam had slept at his side.

Forty-eight hours. He already felt the lack of her.

Foyle reached for the switch on the bedside lamp, and grinned in the dim light to see a glass of water on the cabinet. Iain, (he remembered now), had played the unsteady nursemaid on his way to bed.

A hefty swig of water slaked his thirst—a godsend in his parched state—and he sat up to get his bearings. This was Saturday. There were—he squinted at the Westclox—barely four hours to get ready for his wedding. By rights this should be plenty, but his imagination was somehow folding time to make the intervening hours seem like paltry minutes.

He sprang decisively from bed, scrabbled on the floor for his slippers and headed for the bathroom, where he ran himself a regulation-depth bath, and sank into the shallow water for an austerity soak. Shave and ablutions over, he trotted downstairs in his dressing gown to play the host: warmth, tea and breakfast for Samantha's father.

At seven-forty-five, Iain Stewart was wakened by a light knock at his bedroom door, announcing Christopher, who entered quietly with cup of tea in hand. "Morning, Iain. Saturday's upon us, would you believe?"

Iain Stewart sat up slowly, running a hand through ample steel-grey hair. He yawned and stretched his eyes wide to align his faculties. "Tea! Extremely welcome, Christopher." Iain took an eager sip. "I passed into the land of nod the very second my head hit the pillow. You were ahead of me, though."

Noting an embarrassed smirk from Foyle, Iain nudged the subject gently. "You slept well, I take it?"

"Like a log," Foyle answered, mugging sheepishly to underline his penitence. "A sozzled log—um—floating down a Speyside stream." Both men were grinning now, acknowledging the bridge they'd built the previous night between them, and then crossed. One thing felt certain—they would never be uneasy in each other's company again.

Foyle gestured with his head toward the curtained window. "Pea-souper outside—that's our coastal Decembers for you. Anyway—the bathroom's yours, old chap. I'll be making breakfast shortly." He left the room, granting his guest some privacy to pull himself together.

Iain climbed out of bed and drew back the heavy blackout drapes. Sure enough, the view was cloaked beneath a soft, white winter mist. The sun shone weakly, casting low-angled hazy rays that barely pierced the billowing swirls of ground-cloud.

Memories closed in on him as he leant on the window sill to peer outside. Given half a chance, I would have wrapped her up in cotton wool till Kingdom come, thought Iain, and now the weather's mocking me by shrouding all of Hastings in this fog of cotton wool...

Pulling on his dressing gown, he took the measure of the room where he'd just spent the night. Christopher's son's bedroom. The bookshelf was replete with adventure novels: Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim, Jack London's Call of the Wild and White Fang, but also an extensive set of Edgar Rice Burroughs' Barsoom novels, set on the planet Mars. Iain smiled, remembering how he'd found his daughter reading one or two of those: tall tales of warlike, defiant warrior-princesses fighting bravely alongside their men—men whose chivalry and sense of honour knew no bounds.

Iain took a moment to curse the war that required fathers to offer up their sons for sacrifice, and considered himself lucky that, in the general scheme of things, Samantha was kept relatively safe from harm. There were worse wartime fates than marriage to a decent man and motherhood, he mused.

By a quarter to nine, the men had breakfasted, and Iain Stewart disappeared upstairs to finish dressing. Foyle, still in his robe, cleared the kitchen table, then headed for the staircase to do the very same. Instead, he was distracted by a letter lying on the mat by the front door. He padded down the hallway to retrieve it, intent on placing it on the hall-stand for attention later, but the writing on the envelope pulled him up sharp—the hand was Andrew's.

He squinted at the postal markings, but they defied all scrutiny—BPO, a number that meant nothing to him, and a rubber-stamped invitation to DIG FOR VICTORY. It was quite pointless attempting to decipher where the item had been posted. After several moments, Foyle realised he had been holding his breath, and exhaled. He flipped the envelope over and slid his finger underneath the flap, slitting the letter open with swift, practised strokes. Inside, he found three folded pages.

Andrew has a lot to say.

Withdrawing to the living room, he sat and leant his elbow on the arm of the settee, resting one finger on his brow. As he digested the letter's contents, the corners of his mouth turned down and his brows knitted several times in what could have passed for either concentration or displeasure.

"All good news, I trust, Christopher?" Iain Stewart strode into the room, neatly groomed and kitted out in mid-grey waistcoat, shirt and burgundy tie, and eye-catching maroon braces.

"Hmm?" Foyle tore his attention from the letter. "Aah—yes—all… fine. Just… dealing with some correspondence," he mumbled.

Rising from the settee, he pushed the envelope and written pages haphazardly into the deep pocket of his dressing gown, then switched his tone of voice abruptly to the jovial. "And I think... it's high time I climbed into my wedding suit." He widened his eyes in appreciation of his crisply shirted guest. "You're well ahead of me, Iain…" No dog-collar today, he noted, "… and in mufti too, I see."

Iain fiddled with his tie a little sadly. "I assure you, Christopher, a clergyman is never off-duty, but Geraldine felt… a clerical collar would only serve to undermine the civil ceremony." He paused, rediscovering his good cheer: "Bring my grandchild to Lyminster for the christening," he said brightly, "and I'll show you how it's really done!"

Foyle grinned and patted Iain on the shoulder. "You're on!" and turned to make his way upstairs.

The doorbell rang when Foyle was halfway up the staircase. He hesitated, then called down "Um, Iain? I'm expecting two deliveries this morning. That will either be the florist or… the other parcel. Would you be kind and get the door? I really should go up and dress."

It was five past ten, and Brookie was running a full fifteen minutes early when he drew up outside Miss Stewart's lodgings. He glanced into the rear-view mirror of the Wolseley to check his appearance. Everything looked to be in order. Uniform brushed and pressed, silver buttons polished, hair neatly Brylcreemed, no bits of toast left stuck between his teeth. That, plus a full set of regulation thermal underwear to stop him shivering when standing about, as you did on these occasions—Yeah, he reckoned he'd do. In five minutes he would knock the door and withdraw discreetly to the side of the vehicle, standing to attention. That was good form, he decided—showing them he didn't expect to be asked inside.

Brooke was looking forward to today, and particularly proud to be involved in the proceedings. When you considered how he'd landed in the doghouse with the boss last week, this was a downright bloody miracle.

Quarter past ten. Brookie climbed out of the Wolseley, setting his cap carefully on his head and bending down to adjust it through the wing-mirror. Passing around the bonnet of the car, he inspected a large and awkwardly tied boss of white ribbon attached to the W-shaped bonnet-ornament, and gave a quick tug to check it was secure. Satisfied with his handiwork, he marched up to the front door and rapped the knocker confidently.

Before he had a chance to retreat to the car as planned, the door flew open, revealing a petite, be-kaftaned lady, grey hair pulled into a ballerina bun. Two bright cat's eyes, the arresting colour of peridots, stared up at him expectantly. It was Merivale, Miss Stewart's landlady: "Ah wonderful! The gentleman chauffeuuur we've been expecting!" came the reed-like voice.

"Sergeant Brooke, Madam." Brooke drew himself up tall, which was considerably taller than Meri, and saluted. "Calling to collect Miss Stewart and Mrs Stewart."

"Indeed you are!" She looked him up and down avidly, then turned her head and called "Samaanthaa…?" reverting her attention immediately back to Brooke. "Now do step inside, my dear, and wait in the hall. It's sahch a chilly morning, and we can't have you shivering out there on the doorstep. You'll do yourself a mischief." She took a startled Brookie by the arm and steered him indoors.

Nonplussed at her assertiveness, Brooke snatched the cap down from his head and parked it apprehensively against his chest, fixing his attention hopefully on the staircase. He wasn't normally this jumpy, but the concentrated female aura in the house was playing merry hell with his electrics.

"Brookie? Is that you?" Samantha's voice floated down the stairs with airy nonchalance.

Brooke stuck a finger underneath his jacket collar. "Yes, Miss Stewart. Morning. No rush at all. But we should probably be off in about fifteen minutes, if that suits all right."

"She'll be ready, Sergeant." Mrs Stewart appeared briefly at the top of the staircase, clad in a dark blue knee-length coat with a fur collar, and a jaunty, tilt-brimmed navy hat.

Five minutes later came Samantha in a swathe of fox-fur, colour of the outdoors mist, and looking every inch the winter bride. Her hair was piled high on her head, pinned into a mass of curls, and woven into them was the spray of silk gardenias supplied by Geraldine.

Brooke stared up at her in awe, clutching his cap more tightly to his chest. "You look a picture, Miss! The boss is going to think he's marrying the Christmas Angel."

"Oh, I'm not sure, Brookie; I should think he'll know it's me!" Sam joked as she descended. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned to thank her landlady. "Meri, you've been wonderfully understanding—and thanks for lending me this lovely bag." Samantha stroked the ivory leather drawstring purse with her gloved hand. "We'll see you at The Royal V at twelve, then?"

"My pleasure, Dear. And what a treat to celebrate over luncheon! Shall we see you there, too, Sergeant?" Meri laid her hand on Brooke's sleeve, peering up at him inquiringly.

Brookie preened. "Oh, yes, Madam. My, er, ladyfriend and I are invited to the wedding reception."

"Aaah! Your ladyfriend!" winked Meri. "I should have known a nice young man like you would not be loose and unattached."

"Oh Meri, put him down—you've had your breakfast!" teased Sam. And Brookie's colour rose to scarlet round his cheeky grin.

"I haven't had my breakfast, though." Geraldine sailed through the front door past a suddenly nervous-looking Brooke. "I couldn't face a single bite this morning. Most unusual. I put it down to the excitement." She broke off, in response to Brooke's bewildered face. "Oh, don't worry, Sergeant. You're quite safe with the mother of the bride. I've gone without my breakfast on occasion."

Brooke brought the Wolseley to a halt outside the municipal building which housed the Hastings Register Office ten minutes before Foyle's instructed deadline of ten-fifty. Chatting as they waited on the steps were Iain Stewart, Foyle, Hugh Reid, his wife Elaine, and the Milners. All the men were sporting button-holes in their lapels, and Edie and Elaine had full flower-sprays pinned to their coats.

The morning mist had lifted only slightly, so it was through a semi-opaque, milky haze that Foyle first saw his bride emerging from the rear seat of the Wolseley. Brooke held the door open for Samantha, and as she took a step towards the front of the vehicle, Foyle's vision of her cleared and hit him with all the force of a punch delivered to the solar plexus. She looked exquisite. For a start, he'd never seen her in so opulent an outfit, and the combination of olive green and ivory suited her colouring better than he could have imagined. But the image she projected affected him more deeply than he dared express in open view. Foyle shifted his stance subtly, warding off the difficult effect the sight of her was having on him in a public place.

Towering over Foyle by several inches, Hugh Reid was ideally placed to spot the nuances in his friend's behaviour. Noting the tell-tale fidget, he leaned down and whispered impishly in the groom's ear, "Steady on, old man. Don't want you tripping over any obstacles on your way upstairs." Unfortunately for Hugh, his wife's keen ears caught wind of the exchange. Smiling with intense sweetness, Elaine slid her foot sedately over the top of her husband's, and ground her heel into his instep, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her mischievous spouse.

Foyle leaned round Hugh and tipped his hat to Mrs Reid. "Elaine. So grateful you could join Hugh here this morning."

"You're very welcome, Christopher," she smiled. "It doesn't do to leave dumb animals roaming off the leash."

Recovered from his momentary distraction, Foyle removed his hat and pushed it into Hugh's hands with a well-aimed barbed remark about height and hat-stands, then trotted down the Registry steps to meet Samantha. He was carrying the bouquet intended for his bride, and Iain Stewart followed, with a posy for Samantha's mother.

Foyle cast his eyes down and took Sam's gloved hand. "Darling," he whispered in her ear, "can't tell you how breathtaking you look." Smiling a fond "Hello, my sweet," Sam's eyes never left Christopher's as he raised her hand up to his lips and kissed it. "Glad you like the new me," she confided. "You don't know how I've suffered in the service of glamour! Whatever will you think of me now, on days when I look a fright?" Foyle grinned, and fed her hand through his arm, grasping it to his chest, and planting the bouquet between her fingers—a fragrant mix of freesia, amaryllis and carnations. "I'll take you any old how, and bless my good fortune," he assured her, eyes twinkling.

Together they walked the length of the Wolseley. As they passed the boss of ribbon tied to the bonnet, Foyle stopped and raised an eyebrow to appraise Brooke's unartistic handiwork. "Very thoughtful, Brooke. Just—um—make sure it's gone before the car next goes out on official business?"

"Sir!" Brookie beamed at the attention.

"Oh—and please would you arrange taxis for an hour's time to ferry people to The Royal Victoria?"

"Yes, Mr Foyle. Done in a jiffy."

Leaving Brooke in charge of transport, everyone else formed a retinue and filed into the building behind Sam and Foyle.

On their way up the broad staircase, Foyle squeezed Sam's hand, still firmly clutching the bouquet, and breathed, "You're lovely… make me very proud. And actually,the loveliness is absolutely independent of the outfit."

Sam shot him an old-fashioned look. "You'd better hold that sort of thought for later in the day."

That morning, the following record was entered on the Hastings Register for eventual submission to the East Sussex Record Office archives in Lewes:

16 Dec P40/1/44

Christopher Bellwood FOYLE of Hastings wdr

Samantha Evelyn STEWART of Lyminster sp aged above 21 years

at Hastings

Registrar: Ernest R. GRIFFITHS

With business before the Registrar complete, Sam spoke urgently under her breath to Christopher: "Your middle name is Bellwood?!"

"Mmm. That's right. You haven't read my ration book?"

"Actually no. You always seem to be doing the joint shopping. Wherever did you get a name like that?"

"Um. My… father's… mother's maiden name."

"Makes you sound… aloof and enigmatic—like the brooding master of a mansion high up on the moors."

"Close enough, then. I live on a hill, have no time at all for idiots, and chew my cheek."

Sam snickered, drawing raised eyebrows from the Registrar and the ever-nosy Hugh, who had just endorsed the record with his signature next to that of Edith Milner.

"Silence in the cheap seats!" Reid commanded affably. "We're engaged in serious business here."

"Rely on Hugh to uphold the dignity of any formal occasion," observed Elaine laconically from the rear.

Amused by Hugh's attempt to look hurt and offended, Christopher turned back to his bride. "By the way, have I told you how very—um—delicious you look today, Mrs Foyle?" Christopher stroked Samantha's un-gloved left hand, lingering over her fourth finger, which now bore a wedding band as well as her engagement ring.

"You might have mentioned it already, Mr Foyle. Once or twice."

"Just making sure you'd heard above the animal chatter." Blinking in slow motion, he looked pointedly at Hugh.

Iain Stewart had been growing misty-eyed from the moment of seeing Samantha emerge from the Wolseley, and once the ceremony began before the registrar, Geraldine wasn't far behind him. Not generally disposed to cry at weddings, and being more inclined to revel in the joy of such occasions, today, for who-knew-what reason—she presumed because of Sam—her emotions welled up, threatening to overtake her. Geraldine dabbed furiously at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, hoping against hope that her make-up would not run and turn her into an old fright for the wedding reception.

"There, there, my dear" Iain patted her arm.

"This isn't me at all!" she sniffed. "Absolutely nothing to cry for. Is my mascara running?"

Iain patiently led his wife to one side, took her handkerchief, and started to repair her face. As he leant down over her, intent on his task, the memory came back to him of how they'd made a miracle together all those years ago. When he had finished wiping the last smear of sooty residue from her cheek, he stole a kiss.

"Iain!" Geraldine appraised her husband's fond expression. "I should make you leave your collar off more often..."

Moments later downstairs in the foyer, the wedding party stood laughing and chatting as they waited for their taxis. Sam and Foyle stayed to keep their guests company, though they were travelling with Brookie in the Wolseley.

"Edie, I do hope all the standing hasn't been too much," said Sam, concerned for her friend, who had recently moved into wearing smocks.

"Oh, it's important to have exercise, the doctor says. My legs might ache a little from time to time, but it's been such a pleasure to come and see you married, I've hardly noticed, really. Paul has been so full of your news at home, I was delighted to be asked." Edie drew her smiling husband to her.

"Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Foyle." Paul grasped his boss's hand and shook it warmly. Then, as he bent to kiss Sam's cheek, he said, "I hear you're staying on a while at work. I'm glad—things wouldn't be the same without you."

"Thank you, Paul," Sam beamed.

"Limited period only," supplied Foyle in qualification. "Samantha's staying in post until—what d'you think, Sam? February? Time to get your bearings, and for Head Office to find me a proper replacement. Then we'll see…"

"Yes, that's right, Darling; we'll see." Sam squeezed Christopher's hand in a show of complicity.

Brooke entered to announce the taxis had arrived, and approached the happy couple to congratulate them both. "Mr and Mrs Foyle, my profound felicitations! Your chariot awaits!" He gave a faux theatrical bow, gesturing in the direction of the Wolseley.

"Right," Foyle deadpanned. "Appreciate it, Brooke." Trust we didn't drag you away from a promising amateur stage career over in Deptford Green, he observed inwardly.

To everyone's delight, they emerged from the building to find the mist had burned away, yielding finally to the delicate persistence of the winter sun.

In the back seat of the Wolseley, Foyle drew his bride into his arms and kissed her with lingering intensity. "You brought the sun out, Darling," he began, but in the middle of the kiss, his police antennae picked up interference. "Eyes on the road, Brooke," Foyle admonished placidly.

At which point, as Brookie cheerfully changed up a gear, the young sergeant could've given The Cheshire Cat a run for its money in any national grinning competition.

****** TBC ******

More Author's Notes:

I really wanted to send Sam and Foyle to Lyminster for a service of blessing following their marriage, but it turns out no such service existed in the Anglican Prayer Book until rather later. Shame. It would've been nice to have Iain in the chair, so to speak.

More soon: reception, wedding night, that sort of thing…

GiuC