L'Aimant – Chapter 23

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 23: Aunt Alice tackles Andrew prior to the New Year's 'do'. Andrew receives crash-course in The Ways of Love from various quarters.

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:

First-footing is a New Year's tradition of Scottish origin, whereby a dark-haired man brings good luck to the household by being the first to cross the threshold in the new year, usually with a gift of food or fuel.

…

'Crabfat' is Royal Naval slang for RAF personnel (for instance, "Crimson Crabfats" is navy-speak for the RAF's Red Arrows aerobatics team). The origin of the term derives from the colour of gun-shell grease used by the navy, which happens to be the same blue as air-force uniforms. The grease was also used to treat pubic lice ('crabs') picked up by naval personnel in brothels overseas.

…

Born in 1877, Dame Laura Knight, DBE, RA, was a pioneering painter of women, and, by the 1940s, a veteran artist in the realist tradition. We meet her briefly at the end this chapter—but I promise more of her in Chapter 24. She has business with the girls.

…

This chapter is for dances, who cajoles me, in that airily wise, but insistent way she has, to write it and re-write it till it's right.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

"What would you say to a fighter pilot?" [Sam] 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."

Chapter 23

Lunchtime, Sunday, 31st December 1944

Alice Howard was well-schooled in Andrew-watching. With no children of her own, her interest had settled on her nephew early in his life, and Andrew had spent many a childhood summer holiday with her and Charles. This habit had continued well into adolescence, after his mother's death, and though the circumstances of recent years had rendered Alice's contact with her nephew sporadic, years of practised observation had attuned her to his every nuance of expression. Now, in Alice's expert opinion, something was not right.

With her luncheon guests all safely socialising in the salon, and Mrs Allingham busy in the kitchen, Alice Howard reasoned it was time to broach the awkward subject with her nephew. She fixed him with her almond eyes, then pounced, lacing an arm through his and drawing him to one side in the entrance hall. This she did with the consummate skill of a seasoned hostess, accustomed to conducting confidential business in a household teeming with visitors.

"I know a long face when I see it, Dear Heart." She spoke in a low sing-song tone, a gay smile lighting up her face for the benefit of casual observers. "And yesterday evening, yours was one of the longest I've seen in quite some time—even allowing for this wretched war."

Andrew gave a faint wince, but conceded nothing, so she pressed him further. "Nor was your father exactly brimming with joy at your reunion—what would pass for joy with Christopher, at least. What's going on between you two? Hmm?"

Andrew's long experience around his aunt had taught him the pointlessness of pretending. First he stared at his feet, then peered guiltily sideways at her. "Was it really that obvious, Auntie Al?"

Alice nodded. "To me, yes. Now, Uncle Charles," she confided, "was so excited at having Christopher round to play, he wasn't paying adequate attention. But it was obvious to me." She paused. "Not that it's my business, but in times like these, one can't afford to fall out with one's nearest and dearest." She studied her nephew carefully. "I'd hazard a guess that this involves Samantha."

The speed at which her nephew's startled eyes met hers told her everything she needed to know.

"Andrew," she admonished evenly, "you must not interfere in their marriage. It would be nothing short of a disaster if you did."

Her nephew's brows contracted. "Well, Alice, it just so happens I think the disaster has already happened." He shuffled uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes.

"You don't like Samantha?"

"On the contrary," he shrugged. "She's one of the nicest girls I know. I even went out with her for a while—"

"Ah-hah!" Alice's triumphant look warned Andrew she was well wide of the mark. He shook his head.

"No. Not what you're thinking, Auntie Al. It was… sort of… half-hearted between us. Never went beyond fondness, somehow. And I was the one who broke it off."

Andrew paused to review his past motives with Sam, and to muse on hers with him. I was at a loose end. Sam's upbeat good sense appealed to me, and Dad more or less pushed us together, anyway. It's a fair bet, from what she told me last night, she was just trying to please him—or else accepting the closest thing to him on offer.

"So what is the problem, Dear Heart?" Alice squeezed his arm. "Tell your Auntie Al."

Another sideways glance from Andrew betrayed his embarrassment. "Well, for starters, she's going to be disillusioned when she realises they can't have a family." He reached into his pocket and withdrew an open pack of Dunhills. Slotting a cigarette between his lips, he lit it, drawing deeply on the smoke. "And when she leaves Dad because of that, it will break him."

Alice felt a twinge of sorrow in her chest, but her smile never faltered. "Dear Heart, not every marriage is blessed with children. But that doesn't have to mean it's an unhappy one that ends in separation."

Andrew felt his colour rise. Idiot, Foyle. Bloody hell. He hastily removed the cigarette, and held it, parked between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand, reaching up to touch his furrowed brow. "Aw. Auntie Al—me and my big mouth—I'm so sorry…"

"Nonono! It's all right. Listen… something you need to realise about your uncle and me: we tried for many years, and hoped. But in the end, far from driving us apart, the lack of children brought us closer. Because we knew for certain that we'd only ever have each other."

Andrew closed his eyes, acknowledging the poignancy of what she'd told him. "But…you see…this is different. Dad's nearly twice Samantha's age, so he won't even be able to… "

"Uncle Charles has four years on your father. He would be amused to hear you speak this way." Alice raised an eyebrow to accompany her hostess-smile, and allowed the message to sink in.

"Aw. Auntie Al…" Andrew squirmed and took another drag on his cigarette.

Alice's laughter tinkled in the empty hallway. "Andrew. Life slows down in middle age, but it doesn't stop. Not every field of human activity requires the speed and razor-sharp reactions of a fighter pilot."

Andrew winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I wish I shared your confidence and optimism in this particular case."

Alice reached across and deftly plucked the cigarette from Andrew's fingers, stealing a puff. "I blame the war for making you worry unnecessarily—you young men are forced to live life at an unnaturally energetic pace. If they love each other, they'll adjust to each other's… well… each other's rhythms."

"Put that way, you make it sound so simple. Would that it were." Andrew took back possession of the proffered cigarette.

"Promise me you'll give them a chance, Dear. They look so comfortable together."

"I think she'll tire of 'comfortable'. Girls of Sam's age don't exactly pine for pipe-and-slippers comfort."

"Is that how you choose to characterise this stage of your father's life, Andrew?"

"Auntie Al, he fishes, has a quiet drink and ponders his police work. He takes life slowly. Sam… well, look at her! She's full of beans. How well do you think things are going to work out, once she comes to her senses?"

Alice moved round to face her nephew, turning her back on the salon—a position that allowed her to drop the public smile. She took his free hand in her own. "Andrew… your measured, quiet, pensive father has just married a spirited young woman half his age, and she is looking very happy. Those facts speak for themselves. If I were you, I'd take a little time to observe the situation."

A grudging smile crept across Andrew's lips. "You mean, identify the nature of the target? I shouldn't simply treat it like a bandit and shoot it out of the sky?"

His aunt chuckled. "I mean: Keep it in your sights, but let it fly." She squeezed his hand. "Now will you be a good boy, and play nicely with the other guests?"

Sighing, Andrew stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in an alabaster ashtray on the hall table. "I could certainly use a snifter." He lifted his eyes and glanced nonchalantly across into the salon. "So, who's the ebony-haired angel with Samantha?"

Ebony-haired angel? Aunt Alice cocked an eyebrow at her nephew. "You really ought to try your hand at poetry, Dear Heart. The eye-catching young lady is Georgina Rose. She drives your uncle. If you behave, I'll introduce you in flattering terms. But if you don't…"

"I'll be charm and affability itself, Aunt Alice," he grinned. "Lead on."

Seeing Andrew and his aunt approach the corner she was sharing with Georgina, Samantha whispered to her companion, "He's coming over now. He's really very nice." When he's not being an utter prat, she added silently.

Alice beamed down at her young lady guests. "Sam, I just wanted to introduce Andrew to Georgina. Georgie, this is Mr Foyle's son, and my beloved nephew, Squadron Leader Andrew Foyle. Andrew, Miss Georgina Rose—your uncle's new chauffeuse."

"Delighted to meet you, Miss Rose." Andrew's impish movie-star grin made its first appearance of the weekend so far, as he extended his hand.

"Please call me Georgie. Everybody does." Georgina's answering smile created dimples halfway up her cheeks, making her look for all the world like Jennifer Jones, fresh from 'The Song of Bernadette'. "So you fly? What? Spitfires?"

"Mostly." Andrew's grin persisted. "But on the ground, my passion is for motorbikes."

"Oh—the roadster isn't yours?" Georgie looked slightly disappointed, though her dimples never faltered.

"Well, it is for now. I've borrowed it until I have to report back for duty in a week. Would you care to have a go? I hear you drive my uncle…"

"Mmm. A Riley. Nothing as fancy as a roadster. But I love fast cars."

"Tomorrow, then, we'll go for a spin—once the weather's warmed up a bit."

Sam chipped in. "You could wait all day for that to happen. Anyway, Andrew, you can have my chair; I need to go and speak to Christopher."

"Well then," smiled Alice, clasping her hands together. "Shall I leave you young persons to it? Mrs Allingham will doubtless need to see me about arrangements before luncheon is served."

"Yes, thank you, Auntie Al." Andrew slid seamlessly into Sam's seat as she vacated it. His eyes never left Georgina's. "How's the job going, then, Georgie? Is Uncle Charlie making you burn some rubber for the war effort?"

Par for the course,Sam huffed to herself as she made her way across the room to join her husband. All moral indignation one minute, and completely pecker-led the next. I wish I'd hit him with that candlestick-thing yesterday when he got my dander up. Now, I wouldn't even waste the energy.

Early hours of Monday, 1st January, 1945

In the grand reception room of the Howards' Georgian mansion, with the Auld Lang Synes behind them, Sam and Foyle stood face-to-face, cradling coupes of champagne.

A happy, slightly drowsy, smile illuminated Sam's face as she raised her glass for the umpteenth time that evening. This time she had strayed from modest apple juice and felt the guilty tickle of champagne-bubbles under her nose. "Happy New Year, my darling. Something better is coming this year, I can feel it."

"Is that so?" Christopher glanced carefully to one side, as if to check for observers. "I'd say it had already arrived." He cupped her chin and brushed his lips over hers with a studied tenderness that somehow promised more, without overstepping the boundaries of a public embrace.

The combination of veiled passion and champagne set Sam's cheeks aflame. She looked shyly down, then closed her eyes. For a second or two, she felt a little dizzy, and longed for her bed.

"I, um, think I should go and powder my nose. But before I do, I just have to tell you something…"

"Hmm? Sweetheart?"

"You are… effortlessly gorgeous." Sam raised her eyes and looked deep into her husband's blue-grey eyes. "I consider myself to be the luckiest woman in the world."

With that, she pecked him on the lips and moved off towards the door, trailing her hand along his arm as she left.

Christopher tilted his head and smiled quietly to himself, twisting his lips as he savoured the compliment and everything it promised to him. He still was diffidently relishing Sam's parting words when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The hand belonged to Andrew.

"Happy New Year, Dad. Spare a minute?"

"Mmmaybe." With leisurely precision, Foyle placed his champagne coupe on a nearby table. Although the wine glass was identical from all angles, Foyle twisted it in situ, taking his time until he was completely satisfied with its orientation. Then he pushed both hands into the pockets of his dinner suit and turned to regard his son. "What can I do for you?" Foyle's chin lifted as he spoke.

"Can we, er, talk?" Andrew sank his hands into his pockets, emulating his father's stance, but his gaze was lowered and apologetic.

Foyle inclined his head. "Entirely fine with me." He followed his son through the crowd of guests and across the hall into the drawing room.

Closing the door behind them, Andrew moved to stand before the marble mantelpiece, nervously tracing his eyebrow with one finger.

"I, er… Aunt Alice thinks, um…" He paused, and raised his eyes to meet his father's. "Dad, I've been a total arse."

"'Deed you have." Foyle widened his eyes to reinforce the observation.

"I should've kept my mouth shut. For all I know, you'll suit each other very well."

"Oh? Thanks for that. How come?"

"Well, some women do very well without having a family, don't they? And Sam is obviously fond of you, so…"

"Fond. Right. Sam and I won't be having a family, then?"

"Well, er. Not very likely, is it?"

Foyle stretched his eyes again. The amusement reached his lips. "Andrew, is this actually an apology, or… er… are we going to have another difference of opinion? Because… it's been a long day, Sam will be back soon, she's tired, and we'd quite like to be off to bed."

Andrew shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Yes, er, sorry, Dad. It's an apology. I hope you'll both be very happy. It's none of my business."

"Andrew." Foyle sighed and scratched his ear, preparing to indulge his son. "If you want to make us your business, I can understand that—you're my son. You're doing this out of decent motives." In a trademark gesture, he lowered his open hand to underline the next point. "Look. No reason why you should know this? You've been away? Little opportunity to observe us? But…" Christopher frowned slightly and tilted his head, "Sam and I are very much in love. With one another. Believe that, and—ummm—shelve your prejudices a bit, annnd… we may surprise you. Sound all right to you?"

"If you say so, Dad."

"I do say so. Now, it's bloody late—well past this old man's bedtime. We should draw a line under this, here. After a night's sleep, start the New Year on a better footing?"

"Fine. You bet."

Foyle received his son into his arms and patted him lightly on the back.

"You still owe Sam an apology," he added. "Any time tomorrow will do."

"Right: apologise to Sam tomorrow." Andrew winced over his father's shoulder, involuntarily tensing his pelvic floor. "You go on up, then. Think I'll just smoke a quick fag before I turn in."

Sam emerged a little wearily from the downstairs lavatory, smoothing down her crêpe de Chine. I used to be better at late nights, she reflected. Get so tired these days. Retrieving her champagne coupe from the occasional table under the stairs where she'd parked it, she took an experimental sip, then set it down again. Think I'll give the rest of this a miss…

The oak panelling veered towards her, and Sam put out a hand to fend off the looming wooden wall. She leant on the table until the faintness passed, taking a moment to gather herself. From the grand reception side of the entrance hall, Sam was hidden from view, but she could easily hear the sound of feet ascending the stairs above her head, accompanied by women's voices.

"This new wife's a sweet child, but I can't imagine it will be the grand amour for him, this time around."

"Ah, yes, I well recall how smitten he was with Rosalind… and of course she gave him Andrew. Too late for Christopher to have a second family now. At his age, it's unlikely he'll be bothering this one much in the bedroom, charming though she is."

"Indeed. One must suppose that, after all these years alone, he's finally grown weary of looking after himself. Well, good for him. I do like Christopher. I hope that she's a competent cook, at least."

Sam straightened up, fists balled at her sides in impotent fury. Come to dinner, why don't you? she fumed silently. I'll jolly well spit into the coq au vin.

Her bravado was only momentary. The words had hurt sufficiently, in her tired and hormonal state, to transform her anger swiftly into tears.

Which was how Christopher found her half a minute later, moist-cheeked and slumped against the wall beneath the stairwell.

"Sweetheart. What…?" His brows puckered in concern, Foyle bent, hands hovering each side of her. "Sam?"

Andrew wandered from the drawing room in his father's wake, a lighted cigarette between his fingers. Although the corner underneath the stairwell was invisible from most angles in the hallway, a strategically hung mirror gave him an unexpected but clear glimpse of the business unfolding between his father and Samantha. The little he'd observed was already enough to confirm that the moment was a private one, and that witnesses wouldn't be welcome. Andrew retreated smartly back into the safety of the drawing room to finish off his fag.

However, curiosity immediately got the better of his scruples. From his position just inside the room, Andrew's ears were able to latch on to the muted exchange… and his eyes were drawn to the activity reflected in the mirror.

As he watched, Sam melted into his father's arms, weeping softly. "Christopher, they all think you've married me to do your cooking."

"Who do?"

"Ladies' voices. On the stairs." She wiped her eyes. "I heard them. They couldn't see me under here. And they think you can't or don't… you know… as if you're some sort of old man in his dotage. I can't stand the beastly arrogance of them, and the injustice of it."

From his eavesdropping vantage point, Andrew guiltily acknowledged to himself that such discussions of his father's motives for marriage—the very ones Sam had found so terribly upsetting—amounted to a reasonable summary of his own concerns.

"Hush, Darling!" Christopher fed a hand into Samantha's hair, stroking the warm skin behind her ear. "It couldn't matter less what they think."

Sam sniffed. "I suppose I'm just not elegant or sophisticated enough to be taken seriously. Look at Alice—she's so devastatingly chic. And all the other ladies are like something out of Vogue." She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "So, naturally, they think I'm some sort of cook-cum-slipper-fetching housekeeper."

"Utter. Rot." Christopher fished inside his pocket and produced his handkerchief. He handed it to Sam, watching her with gentle eyes as she blew her nose and dabbed at her cheeks.

"Thanks," she said miserably, looking away.

Foyle slipped a finger underneath her chin and brought her round to face him. "You look ravishing." His voice deepened. "I could barely keep my eyes off you all evening—or my hands, for that matter. In fact," he cast a leisurely glance behind to reassure himself that they were unobserved, "the devil with it! Come here."

Leaning forwards, Foyle braced her head, entwining his fingers in the soft wisps at her nape, and crushed his lips against hers, pinning her right wrist at shoulder-level against the wooden panelling. Slowly he stroked his thumb across her open palm, and poured himself in to the kiss.

Andrew's jaw went slack, his eyes widening into saucers. Here was his father—his father!—devouring Samantha underneath the staircase, and Sam's soft mewls of surrender, interspersed with sweet coos of pleasure, clearly showed that she was loving it.

Mesmerised, Andrew continued to watch Sam lose herself in the kiss, transfixed by the sensuous quality of her responsiveness. For several—obviously, from Sam's perspective, several glorious—moments, Andrew's cigarette languished, forgotten, between his fingers. Eventually it burnt down to a stub, and singed his fingers. What the f—! He dropped it, and shook his hand in pain and in exasperation, pressing the scorched skin to his mouth, but he hardly missed a beat before his eyes latched onto the reflections in the mirror once again.

After what seemed like an age to Andrew, and an exhaustive lesson in the art of intimacy fully-clothed, his father pulled away from Sam and breathed "Delicious woman. Don't they know it's not a blasted cook I need?"

Samantha made a play at recovering her senses, mumbling weakly, "Christopher, we mustn't do this here…"

Foyle cocked one eyebrow. "Since general opinion seems to be that I can't or don't, it follows that this isn't happening."

"Christopher Foyle," Sam giggled. "We can't make love in Alice's hall. Whatever will she think of me?"

"Dunno. But I know what I think of you." Foyle dove in for a second helping of Samantha, this time wrapping an arm about her waist and pulling her against him tightly.

This, for Andrew, was the final straw. The intensity of the romantic clinch conquered even Andrew's curiosity. He tore his eyes away and half-collapsed against the floral-patterned wallpaper in the drawing room, sweating through the implications of what he had just witnessed.

This was not the passionless partnership he had imagined, but a full-blooded, lust-fuelled union, with the potential to lead God-knew-where. Sam's distress over the voices' dismissal of her marriage as platonic was entirely justified, and Andrew ruefully admitted to himself that his own voice was no less culpable of misjudging the arrangement and the sentiments involved. If the sententious matrons on the stairs had upset Samantha, how much more painful, then, must be his own refusal to treat her marriage to his father seriously?

To make his guilty conscience worse, Andrew recognised that Sam had chosen to protect him from his father's anger by keeping to herself their fraught conversation of the night before. He closed his eyes to shut out the uncomfortable reality of his own prejudice. Sam loved his father in every sense that married love entailed, and this state of affairs he found difficult to credit—if he were honest, difficult to stomach. Wearily he pinched the bridge of his nose, and reached into his pocket for another cigarette.

He stood propped against the wall, eyes screwed shut, drawing calming smoke deep into his lungs. After a few moments the sound of swift footfalls on the staircase reached his ears. With some relief, he realised that the lovers—for there was no denying now that such they were—had called a halt to their under-stairs tryst. His relief was short-lived as reality struck home: Oh God! Samantha and his father were transferring to the bedroom. And in haste.

"Penny for them!" Georgie's voice hauled Andrew from his private hell. His eyes reopened to the sight of Georgie's winning smile, and a spray of silk gardenias nestling within dark curly hair.

"It won't do, you know," she carried on. "Sloping off like that, when we've only just seen in the New Year. By rights you should be out there on the doorstep with a lump of coal. And it has to be you out there, Andrew. You're the only man at the party with dark hair—actually, now that I come to think of it," she giggled, "apart from Commander Howard, who's grey, you're the only other man with hair."

"Come again?" Andrew's mind was still coping with his father's amorous display, and struggled to make sense of this suddenly imposed change of agenda. The genuine puzzlement on his face invited further explanation.

Georgie was both ready and happy to oblige. "First-footing, Andrew. It's important. Everybody needs the extra luck this year."

Andrew expelled a lungful of smoke and regarded her bleakly. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked testily. "Lots of people have already gone up."

"Don't be daft, it's only just gone midnight. Bags of energy left. In any case," she grinned, "I was sort of hoping that you'd walk me home. I'm at the Camden Arms, remember?"

"Sorry. Slipped my mind. Of course I shall." As he took in the sight of Georgie properly, Andrew's gaze softened, and his hand reached out to touch the silk flowers in her hair. "These are nice," he told her kindly. "They set your hair off a treat."

Georgie's hand rose to the silk spray and grazed his. "Thanks! They're lovely, aren't they? Samantha lent them to me. She said she wore them for the wedding. Surprised you haven't recognised them, actually. Well, maybe I shouldn't be surprised. Men never notice fashion details. But it was their big day…"

"I wasn't there."

Georgie gave him such an uncomprehending look that Andrew was relieved to have a water-tight excuse to offer. "I was in Mal— I was on active service. Couldn't get away," he told her, feeling like a craven liar—although the substance of what he'd said was true.

"Oh, that's rotten." Georgie's brows twisted in sympathy, sharpening his now-familiar sensation of guilt. "Still, you're here now," she appended brightly. "And you can bring them good luck by crossing the threshold with this piece of coal…"—Georgie produced a linen-napkin parcel from behind her back—"…which I liberated from the scuttle in the main room." She undid the napkin to reveal a hefty chunk of anthracite. "Now all you need to do"—she herded him out of the drawing room—"is carry it outside, knock on the front door, and I'll let you in."

"Georgie, it's bloody freezing out there."

"Chicken! I have to walk all the way back to the pub in the freezing cold, and you won't even step outside to do first-footing. Berk-berk-berk-bekerrrk!" she taunted.

"What? Give me that!" Irritated, Andrew grabbed the lump of coal and marched across the hallway, calling over his shoulder, "When I knock, you'd better let me in pretty smartly, or there'll be trouble."

"I'll let you in. Why wouldn't I?" Georgie trailed after him, smirking.

"Why? Because of your obviously impish sense of humour."

"Commander and Mrs Howard and a handful of other guests are still up. If you don't trust me to let you in, I'll fetch them all out here. Now, shoo!" Georgie opened the front door and virtually booted Andrew through it with his lump of coal. Then she wandered back into the grand reception room to find her host and hostess.

Some minutes later, Georgie hovered in the vestibule, waiting for the other guests to emerge from the reception room. Since she'd ejected Andrew, there had been a couple of knocks on the door, which she'd ignored.

"…come along, Charles, it's tradition." Alice's voice preceded her into the hallway.

Satisfied that the time was right, Georgie called loudly through the door, "Right-oh, Andrew! Commander Howard's here now. You may knock."

A strident rap of brass on brass resounded through the imposing entrance hall. Charles Howard strode up to his front door and pulled it open, beaming.

"Looks as if we've caught ourselves a crabfat." Charles grinned. "A frozen one, at that!" There stood his nephew under the pillared portico, shivering in his RAF dress blues, clutching a lump of coal in fingers of a similar bluish hue. Andrew's eyes darted to Georgie. "Five ruddy minutes, I've been out there! Where were you?" His face glowed like a beacon.

"Our hosts were talking to Dame Laura. I thought it rude to interrupt," shrugged Georgie, defensively.

Dame Laura Knight, a grey-haired grande dame in her late sixties, did not seem at all the type to be put out by interruptions. She had accompanied her husband and her hosts into the entrance hall, in anticipation of the promised traditional event, and now smiled mischievously at Georgie and Andrew with kind, twinkly eyes atop an aquiline nose. "Keep my name out of it," she boomed. "I'll not be implicated in this lovers' tiff."

Andrew shot Georgie a startled look. "It's not…"

"No, we're not…" added Georgie, helpfully.

Dame Laura blinked owlishly. "Well whatever you're not, I'll not be in the middle of it. Alice, you and I must now line up to receive a kiss, according to tradition."

"Indeed, we must," said Alice. "Do your duty, Andrew. All the women in the household must be kissed. We shall excuse you from dragging out of bed the ones who have already retired for the night, but Dame Laura and Georgie and I expect our due."

Andrew deposited the coal in Charles's waiting hand and did his duty by the ladies: pecks on the cheek for both Dame Laura and his aunt. When he got to Georgie, he made sure to place an icy hand on her right cheek while he pecked her on the left, allowing the frozen tip of his nose to linger rather longer than was necessary for the kiss.

"Ouch! You're like an icicle, Andrew," protested Georgie.

"And whose fault is that?" he supplied, unapologetically. "Try five minutes in those temperatures."

Andrew turned then to address the handful of people standing in the hall, and cleared his throat. "To the company here assembled, and to those already in their beds, I wish a happy, healthy and prosperous new year. Success in all your enterprise!" Charles handed him a glass of whisky to complete the toast.

Murmurs of "Happy New Year!"rippled round the assembled guests, and variously, they drifted back into the grand reception room, or climbed the stairs.

Finally the entrance hall was empty except for Andrew and Georgina. "You left me outside to freeze," he complained afresh.

"You should be used to the cold. You operate at high altitudes."

"In full flight gear, yes. Thought my ears were going to drop off out there. They're like two ice blocks. Feel." He grasped her hand and, when she didn't resist, drew it up and placed it on his ear.

Unprompted, Georgie raised her other hand to cup the opposite ear. "Let me thaw them for you, then."

He looked down at Georgie, regarding her through narrowed eyelids. "No good trying to curry favour now. I should put you on the doorstep for a bit. See how you like it."

"Oh, don't be such an old woman. I regularly freeze on duty, waiting around for your Uncle Charles to complete his business." She withdrew her hands from his ears, but Andrew caught her wrists and drew them back up to his head again.

"They're still cold."

Georgie gave him a half-smirk. "You'll live, though."

"My nose"—Andrew touched it with his forefinger—"has frostbite."

"I could breathe on it for you."

"That would be nice."

Georgie rose on her toes, so that she was level with Andrew's nose, and exhaled with a little "Hah!" onto the tip.

"Better. But better still if you warmed it with your mouth."

Georgie brought herself up to his height again, and planted her lips on the chilled flesh at the end of his nose, holding them steady for a few seconds before withdrawing them.

"How was that?" Her hands remained cupping his ears.

"My, er, cheeks are cold, as well."

Georgie was well aware of Andrew's game, and it was quite all right with her. She found him to be easy company, if slightly on the maudlin side—which, she imagined, was attributable to the harsh realities of doing battle in the air.

"Andrew, if you're angling for a proper kiss, you have only to ask. I like you. And I haven't got a boyfriend." She smiled, and, magically, the dimples reappeared.

Andrew looked down into her eyes. They were the same brown he remembered as Samantha's, but they were sparkling for him in a way he never did experience from Sam. Perhaps this was the way that things were meant to be…

He reached out a hand and cradled the back of Georgie's neck, enjoying the silken feel of her dark curls between his fingers.

"Kiss me, Georgie, if it wouldn't put you out terribly."

"All right. I don't mind." She stood on tiptoe once again, closed her eyes and puckered her lips, planting a kiss squarely on his mouth, between the hands that still cupped his ears.

Andrew smiled inwardly. This was not a girl who'd done much kissing, but her spirit veered towards the willing. He caught her gently by the shoulders. "That was very nice, Georgie. May I return the favour? Not here, though..."

"Mmm," she said, licking her lips thoughtfully. "I don't mind if you do."

She let Andrew lead her by the hand to a secluded spot beneath the stairwell. There, he stroked a hand lightly down her soft locks.

"Such lovely hair you've got," he told her. "Don't think I've ever seen hair quite like it."

"I get it from my father's side," she said. "He's Jewish. I suppose that makes me Jewish, too. Although my mother comes from Ayr. So that's me, I s'pose: half Jewish and half, um, Ayrian. Ta-daaa!"

Andrew snorted with laughter. "Georgie," he chuckled, "you're priceless. May I kiss you now?"

"Mmm. Yes, please." She faced him with pursed lips, and puckered up.

The kiss that Andrew bestowed was gentle; reverent and un-intrusive. Standing as he was, where his father had stood less than half an hour before, dispensing practised passion, Andrew felt that this was the beginning of something very special, and he didn't want to kill it dead by jumping the gun.

Georgie's lips beneath his own were pliant, dewy and yielding, but, he realised, completely untried, and he was not about to push his luck by racing for the finish line. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt that he was on a long-distance stretch, and for that reason, he would pace himself.

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

More soon.

GiuC