L'Aimant – Chapter 20

Summary:

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

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

Chapter 20: Midnight mass at Lyminster. Sam reconfigures Christopher's wardrobe. Iain confides in an old friend. The Foyles celebrate Christmas à deux.

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 Notes:

This is one of my dual-rating chapters. If you like a bumpier ride, defect NOW and read the M-rated version of this chapter instead. It's published separately under the title "L'Aimant – Chap 20 (M)" (but you will need to change your search-filter settings to "Rated - M" or "Rating: All" first. And don't forget to click "Go" after you have changed the rating, or the M-rated chapter will not be listed).

If you prefer to stick with this T-rated version of the chapter, simply read on.

…

According to Foyle's War canon, the church in Lyminster is called St Stephen's. Apologies to St Mary Magdalene, which had to be ignored as a result.

…

Knight's Castile was, and still is, a UK brand of olive-oil-based white soap, made in a style similar to traditional Spanish soap from the region of Castile.

…

Even dancesabove (who is super-sniffy about misuse of the word 'literally') would allow me to describe this chapter as literally packed with lemons. And if you defect to the M-rated version, you will also find a figurative citrus feast.

...

Thanks to dances for her edits, and especially for advice on reining in the passion for a T rating ;o)

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

"Iain, I didn't mean that you… I'm sorry, Darling. You're a sweet and gentle, caring man, but I feel so guilty bringing you this responsibility when you're getting ready to retire. And I am a little frightened. If this leaves me… ill, or weak, how will you cope?"

"The Lord will give me strength. And we shall see a specialist. Get you seen at Arundel. Stirling doesn't fill me with confidence. So if there's any possibility that this will damage your health, we should… really we should take advice."

"Iain?" Geraldine turned in bed and gave him a shocked look.

He shook his head. "Of course not. I just mean, I want you seen by a proper obstetrician. This is not the time to trust to… luck. The Good Lord has his hands already full, and we should not presume on his indulgence."

Geraldine turned on her side, and rested her head on Iain's shoulder.

"'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall'," he said. "Have we been utter fools, my dear?"

"Utter. We were lazy—underestimated each other."

"I fear that tongues will wag incessantly the moment we announce the news."

"Well, let them. You must write a sermon on the subject of the marriage vows: 'With my body I thee worship'. I don't recall any codicil that mentions switching off at sixty. Any tuttings from the parish ladies will be sour grapes or jealousy, if you ask me. Merry Christmas, Darling."

Chapter 20

Late Sunday evening, 24th December 1944

In the packed village church of St Stephen's, Lyminster, the Reverend Iain Stewart was bringing Midnight Mass to a close.

Christ, Light of the world.

May Thy healing peace

bring succour to our troubled world.

The roar of might is silenced by a baby's cry;

for in His flesh, He bringeth peace

and endeth the abomination that is war.

The peace of the Lord be always with you.

And also with you.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

In the name of Christ.

Amen

Amen

The pews had begun to empty, but Samantha was still on her knees with head bowed. Screwing her eyes tight, she offered up an extra prayer for her parents, and a question to her maker: Lord? Do you see everything coming, or do we sometimes surprise even you?

It was an interesting issue, and Sam half-opened an eye the better to ponder it. Actually, people often saw things coming from a distance, she reflected, but still managed to be surprised when the inevitable happened. We look, but often we don't see. Perhaps the Lord sees, but he isn't always looking. Oh, golly; do be quiet, Samantha.

Not one to dwell on prayer (if prayer it was), she crossed herself and rose from genuflection.

A giggle escaped her as Christopher bent to pick up his trilby from the pew seat next to him.

"And what's tickled you?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You're very lucky the hat's still serviceable," she whispered confidentially. "I saw Mrs Allcock nearly sit on it after O Come, All Ye Faithful." Sam craned her neck to catch a parting glimpse of the accused's ample posterior as it left the pew. "If Mr Allcock hadn't caught her at the very last minute, I don't think the crown of your trilby would ever have popped back up again."

Christopher held his hat by the indents at the front, and swivelled subtly to observe Mrs Allcock's retreating rear. Certainly a broad and well-upholstered bottom. And one that had survived five years of rationing to boot.

On a whim, he leant back to compare Sam's own behind. The idea of teasing her on such a subject appealed to him. Briefly, he weighed up the risks of doing so and concluded that the pleasure of some mischief far outweighed the perils.

"I doubt it would recover if even you sat on it," he observed. "How many pre-war-vintage-mince pies do you reckon you've put away since yesterday?"

Sam previously mirth-filled eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm eating for two, in case you'd forgotten. Obviously, you have no idea how hungry I get these days."

"Not complaining," smirked Christopher, "I like a cushioned seat. Just not convinced my hat would like it."

Sam's response dripped honey. "Oh, Darling, I'm soooo pleased you're satisfied with the goods!" She leant across as if to kiss his cheek, but at the last moment, snatched the trilby from his hand, placed it underneath her bottom… and sat on it.

His astonished gape was met by a defiant look from Sam. "It's the only way to disprove your theory," she told him with raised chin, and thoroughly unmoved by the clear annoyance now spelt in his features.

Christopher squinted at her. "Minx," he growled. "That's the only one I've brought."

"Too bad," she told him coolly, and handed back his flattened hat. "Perhaps I'll knit you a woolly one to travel back in. My knitting's…"

"Awful. Yes, so you told us. Well, thank you, Sam, for the kind thought." He gave her a nod of sardonic gratitude, and set about reshaping the bruised felt—one hand braced inside the crown, splayed fingers deftly smoothing round the outside. "We'll be discussing this in private, later," he told her with a tight smile.

"Whenever you're ready," she answered breezily.

Standing in the porch, Reverend Stewart was shaking hands with his departing congregation. Geraldine was beside him, exchanging Christmas greetings with parishioners, and kissing one or two old friends in between.

One by one, the villagers left the little church and set out for home, their low-slung blue-filtered torches barely penetrating the winter mist. It was an amiable but dim procession; the icy fog seemed not only to swallow up the pale beams of artificial light, but also to keep all natural moonlight at bay.

By the time Christopher reached the door—Sam lagging behind with studied nonchalance—Iain was peering out into the milky darkness.

"Not a Christmas candle aglow in any window," observed Sam's father sadly. "On the very day when we are meant to be celebrating the birth of Light into the world, Hitler's hate-filled heart prevents us from illuminating the darkness. It pleases some to cast him as the Antichrist, and what better demonstration do we need?"

Christopher nodded gravely at the wisdom. "Can we help you close up, Iain?" he offered, settling his re-shaped trilby carefully on his head.

"Thanks, dear chap, but Ernest is on hand to help." Iain gestured towards a black-robed figure busy further down the aisle. "Perhaps you'd do me the favour of seeing Geraldine and Samantha safely home? I'll be along in half an hour or so."

"My pleasure, Iain." Christopher offered an arm to his mother-in-law—"Ladies?"—and was about to do the same for Sam, who now stood on the other side of him, when Geraldine looked up and fully registered what was perched atop his head.

"Dear oh, Christopher! I should have warned you not to park your trilby next to Freda. Freda Allcock, felt-flattening terror of St Stephen's pews! In her time, she's ruined hats for countless unsuspecting gentlemen. Samantha, really! You might have tipped your man the wink, Darling."

Samantha leaned round in front of her husband. "Yes, sorry, Mummy—thoughtless of me."

Christopher's eyelids lowered to half-mast. Casting a quick glance in Iain's direction to reassure himself Sam's father wasn't looking, he fed a hand around the back of Sam and pinched her sharply on the bottom. As he felt his wife jump—"Mind your step, my sweet"—he shot her a charming but most un-Foyle-like toothy smile entirely for the benefit of Geraldine.

Sam's eyes flashed in retort, but they contained a smile, and something of a smoulder. She took her husband's arm—now proffered with exaggerated chivalry—and a gloved hand drifted up to squeeze his biceps through the thick material of his coat. For several seconds, her hand lingered there, pressing appreciatively on the muscle.

Together, the three of them set off along the gravelled path towards the lych-gate. To the unschooled eye, Foyle could have been escorting home his wife and daughter.

"See you at home shortly, Iain," Geraldine called back over her shoulder.

"Half an hour, Gi. Go to bed."

Iain wandered down the aisle to join his verger and churchwarden. Ernest Ventham, the Reverend Stewart's longstanding friend, and also his solicitor, was a man of roughly Iain's own age. The services he rendered to the church were voluntary duties assumed since going into semi-retirement two years before. In Iain's book, Ernest was his right-hand man, and now, more than ever, he had the feeling that his friend's support would be appreciated in the months and years to come.

"Ernie," Iain rested a solid hand on Ventham's back, "many thanks once more for all your help with preparations. Shall we expect you both as usual for Christmas dinner tomorrow afternoon? Eh-heh! I rather meant to say, this afternoon."

Ernest had just finished taking down the hymn numbers, and stacked them momentarily on the pulpit steps. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a weary sigh. "If it were simply up to me, Iain, we'd be coming. But Joyce has barely set foot outside the house since the telegram. 'Doesn't want to be in company'. You will have noticed that she wasn't here for mass tonight?"

"I did, indeed." Iain nodded his sympathy. "But I'd rather hoped, in view of Christmas… No further news of James yet?"

Ernest closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm so very sorry." Iain watched his friend in mute concern as he sank into the front pew and began reliving the awful moment that had devastated his household.

"'Wounded in action'. All it said. No details. Joyce in tears. Bloody cruel." He dragged both hands wearily down his face.

Iain grasped for a positive. "They do say that… erm… after the initial notification, letters can take many weeks to come. I realise it's hard not to think the worst. But in circumstances such as these, no news is good news, don't you think? If James… you know… they'd send another telegram to say so."

Major James Ventham. Career soldier. Thirty-two years of age. On active service. Assumed to be in Sicily, and therefore under General Alexander, ever since an unusual package had arrived in Lyminster late that autumn. The enormous box of lemons, each one wrapped carefully in cotton wool, had reached the Venthams just as the annual common cold epidemic had begun to take hold among the local population. Ailing villagers, who—ironically for denizens of the Limey Nation—hadn't actually clapped eyes upon a citrus fruit in ages, pounced with gratitude upon the heaven-sent supply of sore-throat relief. Joyce Ventham had set up a trestle table in the village hall and handed lemons out to any friends and neighbours with a need. And there were plenty of them.

Ernest peered over his wife's shoulder as the lemons disappeared. "I wouldn't mind a taste of one of those," he said.

Joyce ignored her husband and relinquished the last yellow fruit to Mrs Jennings, for her five-year-old daughter. "Avril needs a lemon more than Ernest, don't you, Dearie?" Avril's little head and ears were tied up in a gent's woolly scarf, and the fringed ends hung down the sides of her cheeks like bunnies' ears. "What's she got, Yvonne?" asked Joyce, bending down to pat the little girl's head.

"The doctor says it's laryngitis. Poor lamb can't sleep for the pain in her ears. I've been letting her lie with her head on a hot water bottle."

"Aw, bless! Well, never mind, Avril." Joyce stooped down to the small girl's eye-level and tickled the tip of her nose, teasing out a hoarse little giggle. "Mummy will make you some nice lemon water with honey when she gets you home."

"Honey?" exclaimed Yvonne. "We'll be lucky! It'll have to be saccharin, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway, thanks, Joycie; Ernest. Say bye-bye to Mrs Ventham, Avril." Avril raised a mittened paw and gave a silent fingers-only wave as her mother led her away.

Joyce watched them go. "Ernie, haven't we got some honey in the pantry? Take it round to… "

"On my way," he told her.

Yes, Joyce had been so proud and happy to share her son's unusual and attentively-packed present. But then, the second week in December, that curt and chilling message had arrived by telegram, and totally upset the lemon cart.

Ernest continued unburdening himself to Iain. "We were quite resigned to James being in the vanguard when war broke out. As you know, by '39 he was already commissioned. But to catch it this late on? Now that they're telling us the tide has turned? We'd started to assume he'd make it through the whole lot unscathed. Got lazy in our thinking. Complacent, you see?"

Iain nodded. Oh, he understood complacency all too well. "At least, though, Ernie, we can all pray in the meantime, while we wait for better news."

Rigidly respectful of church offices and clergy, Ventham placed his hands on his knees and stared, unblinking, at the altar. When he felt himself 'on duty' as he did tonight, he addressed his friend more formally: "That's right, Your Reverence, you and I can pray. But Joyce? She won't have truck with any of this,"—he gestured round the church—"not with the Lord, nor Christmas. The world has gone to hell, if you listen to Joyce." He gave an imperceptible shrug of resignation.

Iain rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We'll lay places for the both of you, anyway. Geraldine and Sam will want to pop round after morning mass, and see if they can't coax her out."

Hastily, Iain planned ahead: Christopher and I can keep an eye on dinner while Sam and Gigi see to Joyce. We're equal to it. Modern men. Fathers with their sleeves rolled up… Speaking of which…

"Er. Ernie…" Iain seated himself next to Ventham and fixed his gaze upon the altar crucifix. "I, er, want you to know that… Geraldine and I are going to be parents… again."

Ernest slowly turned his head and regarded his friend with surprised interest. "You mean, you're going to adopt an orphan? Give a refugee a home?"

"Nnn…" Iain winced and scratched his cheek. "It's like this, old chum: Geraldine's expecting. God's rather shaken us up, too."

Ernest twisted back towards the altar, letting out a slow breath that evolved into a whistle. "He moves in a mysterious way," he agreed.

They sat a while in silence. Eventually Ernest said, "You know, I do believe that this piece of news might just about tempt Joycie out of hiding."

"Goodnight. Sleep well, my dears. Big day tomorrow!" Geraldine hung up her coat and hat, pecked both Sam and Christopher on the cheek, and disappeared upstairs, leaving them to their own devices in the hallway of the vicarage.

It was half past twelve—already Christmas morning. Sam glanced coyly sideways at her husband's injured hat, half regretting her earlier provocation, and half in pleasant trepidation at the consequences she was sure to reap.

"Too chilly to linger in the hallway, I'd say," she commented airily, shrugging off her coat and unpinning her hat. As she settled both items onto pegs along the coat stand, she noticed that Christopher was doing the same with his overcoat, but had left his trilby on.

"May as well go straight up, then," he said nonchalantly. "After you." As Sam turned to precede him up the stairs, he reached up and unhooked a piece of Christmas greenery hanging from the overhead light, and tucked it in his pocket.

Sam began to climb the staircase. Halfway up, she sensed her husband close behind, and felt his arms creep round her waist to halt her progress. All at once his voice was in her ear, crisp, clipped, and thrilling: "Not so fast,"—his breath ghosted against her cheek—"'Felt-Flattening Terror of St Stephen's Pews'."

Sam imagined he must be standing tiptoe on the tread below, because the brim of his trilby was brushing the top of her hair.

"I told you we'd discuss this later," he murmured. "Now is later. I think you owe my hat an apology."

Sam's innards swooped in anticipation of a sparring match. "I've no intention of apologising to a rotten hat. It's an object, without feelings. Unlike me. You hurt my feelings, by implying that my bottom was fat. Which it isn't. Yet. But if it gets that way, half the responsibility lies with you, Mister 'Trust-Me-Everything's-Under-Control' Foyle."

Foyle ignored the invitation to express remorse. "The hat is very hurt," he carried on. "Its brim is bruised." He pressed his lips into her neck. "Its crown is crushed." He nibbled lightly on the flesh around her pearl earring. "Its ribbon's… rrrrumpled." His hand slid round and up her ribcage. "Who's to blame? Not Mrs… All… cock." Foyle's right arm tightened round Sam's middle locking her against him, whilst his left hand anchored round the banister. "The culprit…"—he paused to blow gently on the downy hairline just behind her ear—"is a mischievous minx, identifiable by her pert…"—he pushed his lower body up against her rear—"but padded rump. Does she have anything to say before I thoroughly arrest her?"

Sam was giving no quarter. "Pull my 'rump' against you any harder, and I fear your hat won't be the only flattened object about your dignified person…"

"Mmmcertain objects… retain their shape under pressure," he told her educationally. "Feel free to test your premise, Mrs Foyle, in the same way as you flattened my hat."

Somewhere in Sam's distant past, she would have blushed at such a remark. But she had come a long way in her time in Hastings, and especially in the last eight weeks. A gush of pleasure overtook her, and she leant her head half back and round, avidly seeking attention from Christopher's questing lips.

At that point, their on-stair canoodling was interrupted by Geraldine, on her way across the landing to the bathroom.

"Time to shift your spooning to the bedroom, Duckies. Iain will be back from church before you know it, and he won't appreciate an obstacle course of tangled limbs on his way up to bed." Half under her breath, she added ruefully, "As if he hasn't learnt his lesson the hard way without you lovebirds to remind him."

Geraldine continued down the landing and disappeared from view, but her parting phrase—a reflection on the general state of Stewart family affairs—caused no small amusement in the 'lovebird' camp.

"Night, Mummy," giggled Sam, and Christopher pressed his face into her shoulder, chuckling.

Monday morning, 25th December, 1944

Just after dawn, Foyle woke beside his sleeping wife to see there was a lovely day in store: a shaft of sunlight shone between the curtains of Samantha's girlhood bedroom onto the double bed. In honour of their first stay as a married couple, her thoughtful parents had transferred a bedstead from the attic, complete with its original feather bedding. It made for quite a cosy nest.

His next, and more prosaic thought, was that the curtains must have been improperly drawn the night before—an oversight, that, had they been in Hastings, would certainly have brought an ARP warden to the house, and earned its occupants a hefty fine.

"Sam!" Foyle gently shook his wife's sleeping form. "The sun's out. Open your eyes, Sweetheart, before it goes back in again!"

"Meuuuh!" Sam's rise to wakefulness was laboured. Cosy, warm, and still extremely sleepy, snuggled on her side against her husband, she twisted minutely to stretch herself. The movement was a wrong one. "Tsss! Ow!" She shifted painfully onto her back and pulled both knees up to relieve the ache. "Hoo. Crumbs! How long do slipped discs last, do you suppose?"

"Wish I knew. Never had one, Sweetheart." Christopher's face was all concern. "Tried to be careful of you last night. Hope nothing we did jarred it…" He carefully helped her realign herself, and as he did so, allowed his mind to wander back to the early hours before they had finally given in to sleep…

"So was that it, then?" Behind the closed door of her bedroom, Samantha draped both arms hopefully around her husband's neck as he set about loosening his tie.

"Mmm? Not sure what you mean." The look he gave her was casual and uncooperative, with just a hint of imp.

"On the stairs. That was the hat's revenge? You threatened—no you promised—to 'thoroughly arrest' me."

Christopher shrugged. "Yep. A bluff, though. Don't dare arrest you in your fragile state."

"Am jolly well not fragile." Indignant Sam. "Well, apart from the odd twinge. And I want to be arrested. Arrest me, Detective… Chief… Superintendent," she punctuated the command with kisses to his stubbly cheeks, and dipped her head to nip at his lips; her fingers wound persuasively round the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

"Nup." He turned his head aside, avoiding her advances. "Can't do it. Too risky. It could put you right back where you were on Monday."

"Oh! We can't go all this time without…"

"We can go a week or two. Until your back's in order."

Sam huffed, crestfallen, fingers still toying disconsolately with his curls. "Oh gosh; please not, Christopher. Because if something doesn't happen soon, I'll burst. We haven't gone beyond caresses in a week, and I'm so churned up. I've even squashed your hat to get attention. What's the point of being married if we can't… ?"

Christopher's expressive features were an object lesson in how to stifle mirth. "You sat on my hat out of, er, deprivation?"

"Absolutely. So, you see? It's your duty to sort me out."

"My… duty? You mean… in the way that an officer of the law might sort out any, um, desperate character?"

"Precisely," grinned Sam. "Arrest me. Forthwith."

A fiery twinkle crept into his eyes. For all his teasing, Foyle was far from easy with the prospect of another week of his desirable young wife off-limits. A dozen years in the wilderness had not gone any way towards curing him of what could be referred to as his 'baser' urges, and though he'd quickly learned to distract, and, in extremis, to appease himself in the normal way of things, Sam's charmingly enticing presence in his life—and now in his bed—had reawakened those desires with renewed intensity. In this new state of affairs, persistent cajoling from Samantha was guaranteed to scupper all his usual diversionary tactics.

His mouth quirked upwards and he sighed in mock resignation. "Well… if it comes down to it, and you insist…"

"I do. I absolutely do."

"You know we shouldn't," he began again, somewhat less convinced and therefore less convincing. The words were hollow, and his argument for prudence was, assuredly, now doomed to failure.

Sam sensed a victory, and latched on to his ear, nipping at the sensitive rim around the shell. He smelt of Knight's Castile and sandalwood. "Mmm. Darling. Lovely," she hummed gratefully. "Granted, lying flat's a problem at the moment. If we could just be gentle about things…"

Foyle smiled softly to himself. Through all their lovemaking up to now, the act of love itself, whenever they had lain together, had certainly been traditional in disposition. They were an affectionate couple, fond of eye-contact, and as such, keen on expressing passion face-to-face. For all he knew, therefore, in Sam's view—and certainly in her experience—arrangements for full intimacy never strayed beyond the missionary position.

Now was the time, perhaps, to widen Sam's horizons.

His voice was kind, but business-like. "Gentle is one way, Sam. Or else… inventive."

Sam pulled back to read his eyes, and probed. "What did you have in mind?"

"Easier to show you than describe." He led her to the bed and eased her down to sit beside him, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.

Sam waited patiently for instruction, but found herself distracted by her husband's ever-present trilby. "Aren't you going to take that off?"

"What off?" His tone was blatant non-cooperation, with just the slightest upturn of his mouth—sufficient to provoke.

"The wretched hat." Sam reached up to remove it.

Foyle flinched his head back, catching her firmly by the wrist. "Nup. I'm going to wear it all through Christmas, to remind you of your crime." Then he fished inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a sprig of mistletoe, the stalk of which he deftly slid beneath the rumpled ribbon of the hatband.

"There," he announced. "Now we're fit to go." He leant towards her, mistletoe bobbing cheekily in front of his face, and uttered the familiar formula, with solid emphasis on every word. "Samantha Foyle, I arrest you for the crime of malicious damage to a trilby hat. Anything you say will be taken… down… and used in evidence."

Sam's eyes sparkled at the promise of some mischief. "They'll be coming down jolly soon anyway, so I hardly need to speak the word." Dipping her head, she stole a quick kiss underneath the trilby and its Christmas greenery, and waited, beaming with anticipation.

Foyle licked his lips in thought, then sighed and rose, removing his trousers. Next he took off his jacket and waistcoat, folding and draping both carefully over a nearby chair.

He stood in just his hat and shirt-tails now, some way ahead of her in clothes-removal. Giving his wife a measuring look, he pulled Sam to her feet to face him, then brought his hands up to unbutton her blouse. Once he'd reached the end of the line of buttons, he slid his fingers around the back of her skirt to release the waist-fastening and pull down the zip. The skirt fell round Sam's ankles, and with the merest shrug of her shoulders, her blouse soon followed.

"Better." Foyle took a step back to enjoy the view: Sam was in a satin camisole and French knickers over her suspenders and stockings. "Fetching," he murmured, trailing a finger down between her breasts. "But no, um, corsetry?"

"Brassières tend to provoke lectures from my husband," Sam explained, "so in the end I've decided that they're best left off."

"Well, aren't I lucky. Be sure to thank your husband for me." Christopher ventured a hand to weigh one satin-covered breast, soft and heavy underneath the flimsy undergarment.

Sam melded her lips to his. She had always loved learning from him, and their explorations that early morning were no exception. As she felt his urgent breath upon the nape of her neck, and his strong arms anchoring her bowed form against the evidence of his passion, she found that experiencing him differently could be as profoundly romantic and thrilling as it was intense.

For Christopher, it was a brand of intensity that proved his wife an apt and innovative pupil. She accepted all that he could teach her and then taught him a few lessons of her own. To be precise. Sam's enthusiasm knocked him supine, hat and all.

Afterwards, recovering a little of his composure, he raised a hand and groped behind his head into the narrow space between the pillow and the headboard, and fished out a flattened lump of felt. "Look at this!" he protested mildly. "You've done it again, by God!"

"Told you to take it off," she giggled.

Halfway up the staircase on his way to bed, Reverend Stewart froze, embarrassed, in his tracks. The vocal transports of delight resounding from Samantha's bedroom halted his ascent. He stood a moment, mortified, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Finally he sighed, obliged to concede that his daughter had reached both adulthood and the pinnacle of joy. As he resumed his climb, he opened up his heart and mind to make room for his next, soon-to-be-cherished, child—one he would survive, he hoped, to usher into similarly jubilant maturity.

Whilst Christopher's recall of their erotic early-morning marathon still was in full flow, Sam lay with closed eyes, luxuriating in the same memories of their tender lovemaking.

"Darling. Mmm. I've never enjoyed such a romantic start to Christmas," she purred.

Settled with her shoulders against the headboard, she gradually found herself free of troublesome twinges, and turned her attention to the window. "Do open the curtains, Christopher. Let's have a proper look at Christmas Day!"

Foyle drew back the heavy damask drapes, allowing the bright low-angled winter sunshine to stream into the bedroom.

Scrunching her eyes, Sam raised a hand to stave off the piercing brilliance. "Golly! After a pretty jolly awful week of weather, the light is simply breathtaking."

Foyle turned to take in the vision of his wife, propped up in bed, bare-armed, gorgeous and dishevelled in the sunlight. He climbed back beside her under the covers, and pressed kisses to her upper arm. "The sunshine has nothing on my lovely, sunny wife. Thank you for last night," he hummed. "And by the way… the hat forgives you, Darling."

"Oh, that poor old hat!" Sam stroked the soft, thin fuzzy hair on top of Christopher's head. "I'll soon sort it out."

"Will you?" he smiled into her arm, not really caring one way or another any more.

"Absolutely! Re-blocking hats is a complete doddle—we all learnt how in Girl Guides, and"—she added proudly—"I even got my milliner's badge. Your trilby will be ship-shape and Bristol fashion in time for when we leave on Monday." An upturned saucepan and a kettleful of steam should do the trick, she thought.

"No woolly hat to travel home in?" enquired Foyle, with more than a hint of relief.

"Your dignity is safe, my darling." Sam ran a hand over his head, then tucked her chin into her neck to focus on his sparsely-covered scalp. She added musingly, "Although, you know, I might just try to knit you a nightcap, anyway—to keep your noggin warm on winter nights."

Foyle closed his eyes and edged his crown into the crook of her armpit, resting his cheek on her breast. "No, thanks," he said. "You do that pretty well, already."

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

More soon.

GiuC