L'Aimant – Chapter 22

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 22: The Foyles decamp to Tunbridge Wells to spend New Year with the Howards.

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:

During the war, all signposts were removed from British roads, to fox the enemy in the event of an invasion. To make things worse for people trying to get from A to B, most maps available for country locations in those days were of the complex Ordnance Survey variety, rather than the nice, clear road-maps to which we're now accustomed.

…

This chapter introduces the character of Alice Howard. In canon she doesn't exist, but TartanLioness created Alice for her sweet romance 'The Truth Will Out'. The name Alice, and the lady's elegance, as described by TartanLioness, stuck in my mind.

"Mannequin" was the usual 1940s term for a fashion model.

…

As always, dancesabove is keeping me on the straight and narrow ;o)

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

Hollyoak appeared from the back office, with a lively smile. "You're welcome, Mrs Foyle. Drive carefully, now." The smile was wiped right off his face when he spotted the DCS. He drew himself up smartly. "Sir!"

Foyle appraised the young man coolly. His wife's unvexed—happy, even—demeanour, plus the evidence that she had been treated with courtesy and kindness, allowed him to grant the constable a curt, unsmiling nod before they left the station.

Temple, having observed the scene, concluded that it wasn't much, but certainly an improvement on the manner of the DCS's earlier greeting. He rested a hand on Holly's shoulder.

"Well, lad—looks as if a little sugar goes a long way. Long way further than a bucketful of bile."

Holly considered his sergeant's words. "I wasn't buttering her up, Sarge. I wanted her to have it."

Temple squeezed his shoulder. "Yeah. Who wouldn't? Easy to see what happened there." He nodded towards the departing Wolseley.

Chapter 22

Saturday, 30th December, 1944

"I'm rather nervous, Christopher. Will this New Year's bash be very grand?" Sam was fussing round the cases for their trip to see the Howards. "Fortunately," she went on, "Mummy did that thing she does and lent me evening clothes. Thank heavens for estate-sale elegance, and her eagle eye for bargains. There's precious little in the shops just now."

All their packing prior to leaving Lyminster on Tuesday had been done by Sam, and if Christopher had noticed the extra weight of clothes inside the suitcases when he lifted them, he'd said nothing at the time.

Nor did he make any comment now, continuing instead to gaze out of the bedroom window.

Sam pressed her point. "I'm worried that I shan't be up to scratch…" It was a gentle prompt to her husband, who'd seemed somewhat remote since yesterday—off in a world of his own.

"Would you like to see?" Sam administered yet another verbal nudge.

"You'll outshine the other ladies, no matter what you wear." Foyle turned and kissed her lightly on the forehead, then turned away, resuming his position by the window.

Sam frowned, suspecting—as it happened, correctly—that the compliment was a veiled dismissal. "So… you're not interested to see?"

Christopher sighed and quitted his reverie. "Always, Sam. Please show me."

His distraction and unease stemmed from the phone call to his office from Commander Howard the previous day. Charles' disembodied voice imparted news that came as severe shock: "…and now, of course, since Andrew's joining us virtually straight from the landing strip, it'll be a full family celebration—make up properly for our absence at the wedding..."

Foyle had blinked. Andrew? Andrew was in the country for New Year, and planning to turn up at his uncle's? Without a letter or a word? Not even calling in at home first? What the blazes was he playing at? Foyle's seething annoyance had subsided, to some degree, over the hours that followed his brother-in-law's revelation, but even now, the following day, his mood was not of the best.

For which reason, the lilac crêpe de Chine confection Sam now draped across the bed in front of him registered only vaguely. But his mouth—Yes, very lovely, Sam— was making all the right appreciative noises, wasn't it? At any rate, sufficient to appease Samantha. Or so he thought.

"All right. Enough," Sam interrupted him. "I smell a rat. What is it you aren't telling me?" She stood, arms folded, and fixed him with a penetrating stare. "I shall get it out of you eventually," she warned, "just as I did the Eastbourne/Parkins affair. You are so buttoned-up, clamped-shut and winkle-like, I'm quite prepared to get a great big pin and..."

"Andrew will be there." Christopher's words stalled her, mid-flow. There was no point attempting to fob Sam off. She would find out in the next few hours, anyway.

"He's written? Andrew's written… and you didn't tell me?"

"No. There's been no letter. Not that I've received, at any rate. He's written to his Uncle Charles."

"To spite you." Sam bit her lip, wrestling with the angry realisation that Andrew had frozen his father out of his plans.

Foyle was silent for a moment. Then he offered, mildly, "You don't know that for certain. Letters go astray in wartime."

Sam humphed, and mentally appended one fresh item to Andrew's growing list of offences against his father. Her eyes began to prick with tears of disappointment. You blessed horror, Andrew. And to think I ever counted you a friend.

Foyle slumped down on the bed beside Sam's crêpe de Chine, reaching wearily for her hand. "This is not for you to deal with. I shall put him straight over the weekend."

Sam's heart constricted in her chest. Put him straight! I'll give him 'straight'! She brought her husband's hand up to her face, and pressed her cheek against his fingers. "Yes, I know," she told him softly. "You'll put him straight, my darling. Of course you will."

Royal Tunbridge Wells promised to be a new experience for Sam. She had never got around to visiting it before the war, and since The Blitz, the town had become so swollen with refugees from London that housing and accommodation were stretched to the very limit. To make things worse, although Tunbridge Wells was not itself a German target, Jerry bombers that had strayed from their objectives habitually dropped bombs upon it in a parting panic. As a result, many of the town's buildings had suffered direct hits, which made it quite impossible for casual visitors to find a place to stay.

Raids had slackened off in the past year, however, and the old English spa town now had something of the air of a survivor about it. Having battled bravely through the worst, it was in the process of pulling up its civic socks and sorting itself out again.

Sam squinted through the train windows as they passed through town, but it was half past four, already growing dark, and therefore getting difficult to see.

When Foyle and Sam alighted at High Brooms station, slightly north of Tunbridge Wells, they weren't particularly tired. This was a well-served direct line from Hastings, and their journey up from the coast had been a smooth, if somewhat chilly, one. Sam had spent most of the journey with her knees shrouded in a tartan rug, and once their compartment had emptied of other passengers, Christopher had finally yielded to persuasion and joined her underneath it, gathering her against him. At that point, he thanked his lucky stars that lipstick was in short supply, and Sam was saving hers for later, to impress the Howards. That way, there was no incriminating evidence around his face and collar when they left the train.

Charles Howard had arranged to have his driver pick them up outside the station and bring them to his home a few miles further east, in Pembury. Sure enough, Foyle and Sam only had to wait a few short minutes before a well-polished Riley pulled up before them at the station entrance.

The uniformed cherub who climbed out of the driver's seat and waved a cheery greeting made Samantha blush in recognition. Without a doubt, she mused self-consciously, this girl—with the exception of her striking ebony curls—was a younger, perkier version of herself.

Christopher was visibly amused, to the extent that Sam felt obliged to administer a subtle dig to his ribs. "Don't even think of passing comment," she admonished him in a sharp whisper. "I am well ahead of you."

The cherub launched into a stream of greeting. "Hullo, I'm Georgie Rose. How are you? I'm on the dot, I hope! Quite the old adventure getting here! These country lanes are a perfect maze, and all the signposts have been snaffled. I ask you! As if Hitler's going to give a darn which way anywhere is from Pembury. I thought at one point I was lost, and had to use a compass to reorient myself. But, well, here I am, so no harm done, I s'pose!"

Foyle raised his hat. "Miss Rose? How do you do? This is my wife, Samantha—also with the MTC."

"How do you do. Please call me Georgie. And I know. That's marvellous. Commander Howard told me. May I call you 'Sam'? We shall have so much to talk about. The map's still on the passenger seat. I expect you're good at reading OS maps. I've got a torch. And if you can manage to read the route while I drive, we'll have a better chance of getting back to Pembury quick-smart. I do so love a challenge!"

Sam took a breath on Georgie's behalf, and glanced at Christopher, sucking in her cheeks to stifle the amusement threatening to spread across her face. "Well, I'd be very pleased to help. I'll try my best. Christopher, would you mind sitting in the back?"

"Not at all," he smirked. "The view from there will be extremely interesting."

"Your husband's funny," whispered Georgie in Sam's ear. "It's impossible to see a thing at night on country lanes."

"I, er, think he means us, Georgie. He is going to sit in the back and we're the view. He'll find it very funny if we lose our way with two of us on duty."

"Oh I see!" giggled Georgie, seeing. "We're the entertainment. Well, I don't mind. I should love to see a pair of blokes do any better in the middle of the English countryside, without so much as a milestone, and no lights to speak of." She opened the back door for Foyle and gave him a cheeky salute. "You wouldn't like to bet ten bob on getting lost, would you, Sir? You'd lose, and I don't half fancy some shoes I saw in Tunbridge Wells on the way here. Nine and sixpence. Red wedge-heels. With bows. A ten-bob win would cover things nicely."

"Mmmunfortunately I'd have to arrest you, and myself, I'm afraid."

"For illegal rambling," quipped Sam, mischievously, in Christopher's ear.

"Sorry?" Georgie's ears were sharp as tacks. "Don't you mean 'gambling'?"

"Yes. She does, indeed," Foyle grinned, as he climbed into the back seat. "But that's not always what she types."

"Oh, well. So much for my ten bob," sighed Georgie. "Sam, have you ever driven a Riley?"

"Just another sort of Morris, isn't it? Ours is a Wolseley. But I wouldn't mind a spin in yours, in daylight."

"Top hole. So…! Is that the lot for cases? Just the two? Hop in then, and we'll be off. Fingers crossed in the back seat!"

Charles Howard's Pembury home was an impressive white stuccoed mansion overlooking the village green. It had about it the confident air of family entailment, which suddenly made clear to Sam that, as this ancestral pile now belonged to Rosalind's brother, Rosalind must therefore have come from money.

And to… what? When Rosalind and Christopher married, he would have been a young man, recently back from war, and starting his police career—with none of the financial security nor status he had since acquired. And yet, apparently in spite of this, Rosalind had chosen him, and left behind a life of obvious wealth and comfort to carve a new, more modest niche, with Christopher.

Sam didn't need to ask herself what qualities had won him Rosalind. They were the self-same attributes that had attracted her. And so she sent her tacit thanks to Christopher's late wife, for loving him before she herself was of an age to do so, and made a silent vow to cherish and protect the heart now entrusted to her keeping.

Assailed by all these complex thoughts, Sam's mind was heavily preoccupied as she followed Georgie up the path. Hence she was a little startled when the imposing mahogany front door suddenly swung open to reveal her host.

Charles Howard was a tall, distinguished-looking man with kindly eyes and a shock of wavy steel-grey hair. His greeting—though he had never met Samantha in the flesh before—was reassuringly expansive.

"Christopher! Samantha! Been watching for you! Glad you're here at last. Well done, Georgie. Absolutely confident you'd get them here to us intact, of course."

Georgie, glowing visibly from the praise, saluted her boss, then took her leave to head off to her billet. She'd explained to Sam en route that, due to the volume of expected guests, Commander Howard had found her accommodation at the Camden Arms, about five minutes' walk from the house. "But I'm invited to lunch tomorrow, and also to the New Year's Eve party. I'll see you there, all dolled-up, I suppose. My frock's a parachute confection, so I 'spect I'll look as if I've been dropped from a great height," she joked. "But I don't mind."

"I'll lend you bits and bobs," Sam offered. "My mother's a positive treasure trove for that sort of thing. Come upstairs tomorrow after lunch, and I'll kit you out."

Standing now in the rather grand, panelled entrance hall, Sam looked up at Commander Howard a little shyly. He was, after all, Rosalind's brother. What did he make of Christopher's remarriage?

Charles didn't leave Sam guessing long. She reached out her hand to take his outstretched one, but instead of shaking it, as she'd expected, Commander Howard raised her fingers to his lips. As he did so, his eyes were trained upon her husband.

"About time, Christopher. Alice and I were starting to despair of your ever coming out of purdah." He met Samantha's gaze. "Welcome to our home, my dear. Ridiculously pleased to see you. A thousand thanks to you for putting a smile back on his face."

Indeed, as Sam turned her head to look warmly back at Christopher, his expression was the closest approximation of a beaming smile she'd ever seen him manage.

A light clack of heels across the entrance hall announced the approach of Charles' wife. Alice Howard was a woman in her late forties with the tall and willowy figure of a mannequin; dark hair streaked with grey, upswept into an elegant chignon; and carefully manicured hands that somehow contrived to have escaped the rigours of The War Effort. Sam quietly wondered how Alice Howard spent her time. Clearly not on housework. To judge from the size of the house, there had to be a local woman coming in. And quite likely a gardener, too—though perhaps not at this time of year.

Alice made a beeline for Samantha and bent—indeed, she had to bend—to kiss Sam on the cheek. "Hello, I'm Alice. I wish we could have managed to come to the wedding. I hope you'll make some time to tell me how it went."

As they exchanged greetings with the Howards, Foyle became aware of a figure hovering in the shadows on the landing.

Andrew.

The loitering figure shifted, and Andrew made his way slowly down the wide, curved staircase, one hand in his pocket, the other running tentatively down the polished banister. A lock of dark hair had fallen loose and now curled over his forehead, which furrowed slightly with the expression suspended halfway between discomfort and determination.

Charles was the first to acknowledge him. "Ah! Here he is! The prodigal nephew. Always turns up in time to collect his seasonal fiver."

Andrew grinned, and answered softly, "You know me, Uncle Charlie. Never one to pass up on the chance of pocket money and a decent spread."

"We shall do our best this weekend, Andrew." Alice sought to qualify his expectations. "Mrs Allingham's the best cook for miles around, but even she might struggle with the ingredients at our disposal. One of you," she looked at each of the three men in turn, "might have to venture abroad and shoot the odd rabbit."

"Here to serve, my dear," Charles grinned at the assembled company. "I'll break out the old blunderbuss and give you bunnies by the dozen."

Sam sized up Andrew's face and figure. Rather more gaunt than she remembered him from their last meeting. Darker round the jawline. The boyish bloom had left him, and his usual swagger had given way to a subdued demeanour, bordering on sadness.

Painfully aware that they were under the Howards' scrutiny, Foyle extended his hand to his son, regarding him steadily. "Good to see you, Andrew."

Andrew shook it. "Dad. Been a while."

Foyle blinked, unsmiling. "Yes, well,"—he rested a hand on his wife's shoulder—"ideal occasion to catch up, then."

Giving a tightly measured smile, Sam allowed Andrew to peck her on the cheek and offer a subdued "Congratulations, Sam."

Alice's shrewd eyes observed the somewhat stilted exchange. She turned to Foyle. "Christopher, how would it be if I showed Sam the room where you'll be staying? While you and Andrew do a bit of catching-up?"

Sam looked for reassurance from her husband that she should go with Alice. "Christopher—do you mind? Is that all right?" She glanced between her husband and his son.

Foyle smiled and nodded. "Go on, Darling. I'm sure Alice has a lot she'd like to show you."

Andrew's cheeks caught fire at the endearment. Could this situation be any more strange? Mutely, he watched Sam and Alice ascend the stairs, feeling like a foreigner in his own family.

Without prompting, Charles had already taken charge of the cases and gone upstairs ahead of the women. Which left Andrew standing in the cavernous entrance hall across from his father.

Foyle broke the silence first.

"So. You, um, didn't see fit to let me know you were coming home for New Year?"

Andrew had the grace to look ashamed. "I… thought you'd probably bin the letter without reading it… after—you know—the last one."

His father regarded him evenly. "Wrong. I'll always read your letters. Then decide if they belong in the bin."

"Is that where the last one finished up?"

"What do you think?" Foyle's tone was steady. "Hardly going to frame it, was I?"

Andrew grimaced. "If… it helps at all, I regret some of the things I said."

"Right. Some of them. I see. Limited thanks for that, then."

"Dad, I—"

"'F'it's all the same to you, we'll speak about this later. Middle of the hallway, not the most private place. Meanwhile, I'd appreciate your not saying anything to upset Sam. This is not her fault. I won't tolerate any behaviour towards her that falls short of perfect politeness. Understood?"

Andrew, having read the fiery look in Sam's eye as he pecked her on the cheek, wasn't sure he'd be in charge of how things panned out, once they got together. "How much does she know?" he hedged.

"She knows you're not pleased."

"Fine." Andrew sighed and rubbed his nose. "She's probably going to kill me, then."

"MmmmBit strong. Don't bank on coming out of it with both of them still attached, though."

"I see," Andrew winced. "But I mustn't upset her?"

"Nnnup." Foyle parked his tongue behind his teeth and widened his eyes at his son.

Dinner ended around half past eight, and while Alice disappeared to discuss preparations for the New Year's party with Mrs Allingham, Charles was eager to drag Christopher off into his study—"I've got a problem, Christopher, and I'd appreciate the application of a first-rate mind…"

Christopher cast Sam a "May I?" look before he even attempted to rise and leave with Charles, and she mouthed, "Of course."

Which left Andrew. In the room. Alone with Sam. They waited for the door to close.

"Andrew, you perfect horror!" Sam hissed, once she was sure they weren't being overheard. "You upset your father badly with that awful letter. Not to mention me."

Andrew's look of discomfort bordered on alarm. "You saw the letter? He showed you the letter?"

"He did not. I found it by accident. And read it."

"Read it by accident?" Andrew's tone was sardonic.

"Don't imagine you sound clever. I read it deliberately. And a jolly good thing I did, too. Hope you're proud of yourself. He is so hurt—not that he'll let you see that."

Andrew plunged his hands into his pockets and kicked at the carpet. "Sam. I'm… sorry. It was such a bloody shock, and I was under stress. I'll apologise to him as soon as he lets me. I… honestly, I… you both mean…" He sighed. "It's just… I wonder if you realise what damage you've done, by marrying him. And as for Dad? He should know better."

Sam rediscovered just how snotty she could get when roused. "Don't patronise me, Andrew. I'm your peer." In age. She wanted to add, 'and your superior in emotional maturity and common sense', but curbed her tongue at the last minute. "There's a world of difference between whatever horrid picture you've painted for yourself about our marriage, and the real truth of things. More importantly, you should know better than to doubt your father's judgement."

"Disagree," Andrew argued. "Dad must have realised how you felt about him. He shouldn't have given in."

Sam's annoyance rocketed. "'Given in'? What am I? Some sort of khaki-tunicked Mata Hari?"

Andrew shook his head. "No. Not at all the image I had in my mind. In your case, I think it's more akin to imprinting in ducks."

"Pardon? What did you just say?"

If Andrew had had the nerve to look at her eyes, he would have seen that it was time to retreat. Unfortunately, he missed the signs and carried on: "You know… when ducklings hatch, they follow the first thing they see…"

That was enough for Sam. She rose and hit him round the head with the nearest cushion—which, unbeknown to her, happened to be stuffed with duck-down—and headed for the door.

Andrew recovered himself sufficiently from the soft onslaught to grab her by the wrist. "Look, Sam"—his expression was somewhere between pleading and exasperation—"I've already seen him devastated once, after my mother died. I don't want to see that happening a second time. He's not as young as he was…"

She shook him off. "You think I'm not a fit person to take care of his heart?" Tears sprang to her eyes. "Andrew, I loved your father from the word go. Oh, I would have made do with a working friendship if that was all he felt he could give me. But if he'd met somebody else, it would have broken me. I couldn't have borne that. And that's how I've come to realise that I loved him all along. Not a single one of the boys—the young men—I walked out with ever had the same effect as being with your father."

She allowed that home truth to sink in, half expecting that Andrew would challenge her about their own brief relationship. His silence, to his credit, encouraged her to carry on. "Why can't you be happy for us?" Sam pleaded, verging on tears.

Andrew slid his hands into his pockets. "Because… I don't want people thinking him a fool."

Sam gaped at him, indignant. "You think I'm about to make your father look ridiculous? How then, exactly?"

"Because my fear is… " Andrew shrugged. "Look… wake up. It's inevitable. You'll leave him in a few years' time."

Sam's blood ran cold. "Explain yourself. Smartly. Before I hit you jolly hard, with something other than a cushion... " She cast around for a convenient weapon. A silver candelabrum looked attractive. Although she didn't reach for it, her hands balled into tight fists at her sides.

Andrew looked somewhat abashed, but he clung on to his argument. "Look. The hero-worship phase will soon wear off. You'll dump him for a younger man to have a family," he told her simply.

Sam's laugh, when it emerged, was harsh, and bordered on the cruel. "Is that your best shot, really? That's your reason?"

"Pretty much the size of it, I'm sad to say."

"You wouldn't deign to give me the benefit of the doubt, by any chance?"

"That's not the point. I quite believe that you're sincere, and that you think you're in love with him now. But eventually you'll leave him anyway. Young women want families. It's a fact of life."

Sam fumed. "In that case, I hope you're being honourable and warning your young women not to waste their time on you. Because you're about as likely to settle down and have a family as a stray tomcat."

Andrew squirmed at the jibe. "Listen, I'm sorry I ditched you, Sam. It was a difficult time… my head was all over the place."

"Oh-ho! The conceit of you! You imagine that I took up with your father on the rebound after you moved on? Well, for your information, for most of our time together I felt more like your mother anyway, so naturally"—her tone was heavily sarcastic—"marrying your father was the next logical step." She stretched her eyes wide in challenge.

Andrew looked discomfited, but kept his voice in check, not rising to the bait. "Not really what I meant. On the whole," he continued, "I think you're missing the point. Women want the choice to have a family. They pick husbands who can give them children. Dad is an admirable man. If he were, say, fifteen years younger, he'd be perfect for you. But he's nearly bloody fifty! Jesus, Sam!"

The penny dropped. Andrew thought his father was impotent. Or infertile. Or both.

For the briefest moment, Sam considered taking a leaf out of her mother's book and putting her stepson out of his misery. Don't worry, Andrew: I was already eight weeks pregnant by your father when we tied the knot; we've been copulating vigorously since Day One; your father is a skilful and energetic lover, and I fully expect to kill him in the throes of passion when our children are already bringing up families of their own. She opened her mouth to speak this frank blend of truth and prognosis, then closed it again. It wouldn't have been loyal or fair to Christopher.

Instead, she bit her tongue and opted for conciliation. "I'm very sad you feel this way, Andrew. Because I wouldn't leave your father under any circumstances. Whatever your theories, I chose him for himself, not for his breeding potential." Although, as it turns out, his aim is pretty hole-in-one.

Andrew stared at the carpet. "I just don't want him hurt, or making a fool of himself."

"Well, thanks awfully, Andrew, for that rousing vote of confidence. It's just beyond silly that you're punishing us both for… what? For my imaginary desertion of him at some unspecified future date. Truly mature. And reasonable."

There were footsteps in the entrance hall. Somebody—from the clack of heels it had to be Aunt Alice—was coming back to join them.

Sam hissed again, "Now if you don't mind, I should like us to at least try to be civil in front of the others. All this airing of dirty linen is jolly awful. If anything is guaranteed to humiliate your father, it's us two arguing at a family gathering."

"You started it," he mumbled.

"You started it by writing that letter."

"You started it by marrying him."

"You… " But Sam was out of time. The footsteps halted and the door began to open.

Sunday, 31st December 1944

"Your husband is spectacularly charming." Georgie rested her face on her hand and mooned. She and Sam were enjoying a quiet drink before lunch. "I wish I had a boyfriend. All the men I meet around Commander Howard are married—if you could call it 'meet'—they mostly just look straight through me anyway, or tell me to 'carry on, Miss Rose'. Well I am carrying on, but I wouldn't half enjoy the opportunity to climb down orf the shelf and carry on with somebody."

Sam's heart went out to Georgie. Pickings were indeed lean, as her old MTC friends Beryl and Betty were apt to complain. Considering the heartfelt sigh heaved by Georgina, it crossed Sam's mind she might have underestimated her new friend's age. "How old are you, Georgie, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Twenty. Awfully old. It's as if, the minute I reached an interesting age, the country emptied itself of men. Just my rotten luck that there's a war on."

Sam kept a tight rein on her facial muscles, which were threatening to betray intense amusement. "First of all," she consoled, "the war can't go on for ever, and secondly I think, at twenty, you've got a bit of time before you have to resign yourself to a life of solitude."

She gave Georgina a carefully appraising look, then glanced around the room. Sam wondered idly whether Andrew had stopped sulking since their previous evening's altercation and come down to join the luncheon party. After several minutes, she spotted him through the open double doors that led into the entrance hall, deep in conversation with his aunt.

"What would you say to a fighter pilot?" she asked her young companion, half-absently.

"I'd say 'ra-ther!' if you had one," mumbled Georgie into the hand still supporting her chin. "But it's cruel to tease."

Suddenly, she lifted her head from her hand and brightened, alerted by Sam's serious expression. "You aren't teasing, are you? I did rather wonder whose the roadster was, parked round the back of the house… "

Sam nodded towards the couple still conversing in the hallway. "Christopher's son, Andrew. He's a flyboy. Squadron leader."

Georgie took a quick look and her eyes lit up. "Chocks away! He's gorgeous."

"Hmm," agreed Sam. "Foyle men tend to be. Trouble with Andrew is, he's spent too much time in the air. What he needs is someone to anchor him firmly to the ground."

Georgie latched on to the challenge. "Father taught me how to fly kites when I was eight," she declared. "We flew them in the castle grounds at Arundel. And I'm proud to say I've never lost a single one."

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

More Author's Notes:

A chock is a wooden block placed under the wheel of a stationary aeroplane to stop it moving when the engine is running. "Chocks away" is the command to remove the blocks and enable takeoff.

…

More soon.

GiuC