L'Aimant – Chapter 24

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 24: Sam and Andrew both come to grief, in different ways.

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:

I took a short break from L'Aimant to write another Foyle's War story, which may be posted in the near future. If you're interested, do sign up for a writer alert using "Follow".

…

Marston's Burton Bitter was and is a brand of British beer. Usually served nice and warm, so GIs probably hated it. I may have mentioned this previously, but the phrase "gone for a Burton" was an RAF euphemism used to refer to pilots who'd failed to return from a mission, and were therefore presumed dead.

…

Thanks to dancesabove for excellent ideas and betawork.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

"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.

Chapter 24

Monday, 1st January, 1945

"We spent so much time yesterday swapping MTC horror stories, I haven't learned a thing about your family." Sam took Georgie's arm as they strolled into the drawing room on New Year's Morning. "I know you come from Arundel, but did I mention I grew up in Lyminster? Lived there all my life, until I met my husband."

Oh hark at yourself,thought Sam. 'Until I met my husband'. It sounded so… pretentious. But after all, it was the truth. The fact that when she'd met Christopher, she'd had no idea that he would ever be her husband was surely neither here nor there. It makes me sound like Methuselah, though. Next to Georgie, at any rate.

Georgie's companionship was unusual for Sam, in that everyone apart from Andrew in her immediate circle was her senior in years. Thinking back to her twenty-year-old ingénue self was difficult to do with objectivity, but being in Georgina's company made Sam feel like this young woman's youthful auntie. Georgie might well come across as a little old soul at times, but she was oh, so young. Sam's move from Lyminster to Hastings had been more than just a relocation; it had matured her in more ways than she could name, and cast her in a new role: that of Mrs Foyle.

"I forgot to ask you," Sam continued. "Do you know a Dr Rose? Nice old gentleman who comes to Lyminster sometimes, and he's charm itself. Could he be a relative of yours? It occurred to me he might just be your grandpa, or your father's uncle."

Georgie's eyes slid sideways. "I say. Now wouldn't that be funny? But I have to disappoint you. Sorry."

Sam shrugged. "Well, it was a bit of a long shot. Still, Arundel's not a big place, and Rose isn't a common name. What does your father do, by the way? Mine's a vicar."

Georgie played her trump card. "Mine's a doctor."

Sam bit her tongue. "Oh… Georgie… I… I'm sorry. He's your father, isn't he?" This was a gaffe, and no denying it. Assumptions. One must not assume. Christopher's police work should have taught her that, at least. Suddenly Sam felt no better than the gossips on the stairs who'd pigeonholed her marriage as a sham because of age. A blush crept up her cheeks.

She worried unnecessarily; Georgie took it like a brick. "You're not the first to make that small mistake." Detecting Sam's discomfiture, she squeezed her arm. "Oh, Sam. I don't mind. You mustn't imagine that I do. I used to, for a bit, in junior school, but not these days. Anyway, parents aren't doing their job if they're not embarrassing you, are they?"

Sam could only agree, remembering her father's peremptory visit to Hastings just a few years earlier, hell-bent (well, heaven-bent) on gathering her back into the fold. "Wise beyond your years, Miss Rose," she smiled, admiringly.

"Wise and wily," winked her young companion. "Quick to spot an opportunity, as well. So, come on—tit for tat. How old is Mr Foyle? You can imagine why I want to know…"

Indeed Sam could, and so she told Georgina, asking in return, "…how old was Dr Rose when you were born?"

"Same age as Mr Foyle is now." Georgie's voice took on a sing-song intonation. "So, you see, Sam? Better watch yourself, or you might have a little Georgie on your hands!"

In the circumstance, it would have been quite nice to share with Georgie how that horse had bolted, with the barn door swinging merrily behind, but it didn't seem quite fair to break the news to her young friend before they'd even shared the facts with Andrew, difficult though he was being. In any case, with just a two-week marriage to Sam's name, there was the problematic question of her dates, and how she would explain her knowledge that she was already in the family way. So Sam settled for a genuine, but general, expression of approval.

"I wouldn't mind a little Georgie, or a George."

But the romantically-minded Miss Rose was not about to let the subject lie. "With such a corker of a husband, I can't imagine you'll have long to wait!"

"Oh, Georgie, shush! For heaven's sake." Sam's admonition was good-natured, but her young friend's observation made her blush.

"I can see where Andrew gets his charm from, though," Georgie went on. "Just wish he was a bit less miserable with it."

"He's seen a lot of death, Georgie." Sam surprised herself with this knee-jerk defence of Andrew. Christopher had, after all, fought in a war, and seen his share of brutal death first-hand, but he showed greater tolerance of "otherness" than did his son. The reason why? Sam plumped for human frailty. Police work put her husband in the thick of people, so Christopher had seen the lion's share of that. Oh, he upheld the law assiduously, but the only person he ever came down hard on for being human was himself.

Georgie wanted details. "Did he sweep you off your feet?"

Oh, God, did he ever! Sam's insides vaulted at the memory of their first night at Steep Lane, blithely editing the guilt and worry from the scene. "Mmm," she conceded, in a non-committal tone, hoping to throw Georgie off the scent. "It was quite, er, romantic."

"Oooh, I bet it was." Georgie's imagination took flight. "He's such a gentleman. And you know, he looks at you with big cow's eyes. I've seen him doing it. Not obviously, mind. But when he thinks nobody's watching, there he goes again. I like to see what people do, the minute they think they're unobserved."

A frown invaded Sam's expression. If Georgie saw it, why not other people? Why not the silly women on the stairs? The 'cook' label rankled still in Sam's mind, and she couldn't help but fish for reassurance. "Some people seem to think he married me to cook his meals and wash his socks."

"Can you cook as well, then?" Georgie's interest was comically sincere, but, thankfully, entirely secondary.

"Shepherd's pie and coq au vin," smiled Sam. And babies. Bottom shelf, On Regulo a quarter. Simmer for nine months. Stir frequently, if I'm lucky. Speaking of which…

Sam had managed little sleep between the hours of one a.m. and four. Christopher had had such entrancing notions of how the New Year should be seen in, in the privacy of their bedroom:

Where did we get to, downstairs, Sam? Mmm? There. And here. And here…

Afterwards they had nestled in bed like a pair of spoons, until she felt his soft lips grazing on the downy hairs around her hairline at the neck.

You smell delicious.

Christopher, it's after two!

Feel I need to prove myself—those women on the stairs.

You said you didn't listen to such rot…

Confound the doubters out there…

Unless you ask them in to watch, they'll still be doubters.

Maybe I've begun to doubt, myself...

Oh, tosh! You're such an awful ham.

Ah, Sam, I am exposed. You have the measure of me… here. And here…

Sam broke into a sweat. Her hand slipped underneath her collar, stroking at the pleasure point where her neck curved into her shoulder—where Christopher had nuzzled her during their early morning lovemaking. Even now, the touch of her own fingers to the spot started a shiver. A wave of relaxation overtook her, followed by a sudden impetus to yawn. She stretched into it, seeing stars before her eyes.

A moment later, Sam was gazing up, bewildered, at the ceiling, and at Georgie's startled face.

"You passed out!" fretted Georgie over her. "Like an idiot, I stood and watched you keeling over. Gave me such a turn. Are you all right? Stay there, don't move, I'll get someone to lift you."

Sam groaned inwardly. Not again. Passing out on Christopher's bedroom floor some weeks back, then the tumble from her bike. Now she was supine once again, and this time in public view. Did every woman have such a job of it staying upright during pregnancy? Her hand crept to her abdomen and rested there protectively. Soon new voices were approaching—Alice Howard's, and the deeper, rounded tones of Laura Knight.

Alice took in Sam's posture in an instant, noting the particular position of her hand, and made an educated guess. Laura wasn't far behind, having already, with her portraitist's eye, noted the bloom on Sam's cheek when they'd met the previous evening.

Georgie fussed behind them as they stooped to help Sam sit up. "She just stretched, then folded like a rag doll. Gave me such a fright! Is she going to be all right?"

Recovering slowly from her daze, Sam offered weakly, "I'll be all right in a minute."

"Slowly. Very slowly," advised Alice in her normal voice, as she and Laura prepared to decant Sam into an armchair. Then, under her breath so that only persons close could hear: "Sam, falling like a sack of potatoes isn't good if you're expecting. If you know you are, then please don't keep it to yourself."

Sam's colour rose in front of Alice and Dame Laura. Neither woman, from her recent observation of them, was an idle gossip. Assessing that she could rely on both the ladies to be discreet, she admitted softly, "We haven't told people yet. So I'd rather no one made a fuss."

Alice held back a satisfied smile, mentally revisiting some of the remarks she had overheard that weekend from the women of her circle, about Christopher's 'marriage of convenience'. They meant no malice by it, to be sure, but Alice imagined their perception of the match was skewed by their prior experience of Christopher, and by personal marital circumstances.

Christopher's lack of inclination to involve himself with women since the death of Rosalind, had indeed been widely remarked upon. Alice's old friend Mavis Jefferies had, by Alice's calculation, made subtle plays for Christopher on seven separate occasions since the death of her own husband, and in each successive instance been politely but resolutely obfuscated, sidestepped, and then finally rebuffed. Fenella Hadley, on the other hand, was the sad possessor of a husband Christopher's age who was fond of claiming in the bedroom that he was "off his game"—which gem of information Fenella had seen fit to share, complainingly, with Alice. She in turn had passed the information on to Charles, who'd laughed, and intimated he knew Hadley's "game" rather better than Fenella—from his first-hand observations of the man's behaviour round the Admiralty Wrens.

All in all, Alice reflected, these ladies of a certain age—her own age, she chuckled inwardly—could hardly be blamed for their view of Christopher as an asexual being. Added to which, Sam's sunny practicality around him was not a glaring advert for activity between the sheets.

"Well, now, Dear, let's get you in that chair," said Laura kindly. "Georgina, run and fetch a glass of water, there's a girl."

Georgie had heard enough to understand the nature of the problem, and dashed away with startled eyes in search of Mrs Allingham and the kitchen. Crossing the entrance hall at a fair old trot, she bumped, quite literally, into Commander Howard, and blurted to him that Samantha Foyle had fainted.

Charles had just come from persuading Christopher to join him in bagging a rabbit or two for the pot. Now he turned abruptly on his toes to fetch Sam's husband from the morning room. "You'd better come, old chap. They're picking Samantha orf the drawing room carpet."

Foyle charged across the foyer, leaving Howard, despite his long legs, well behind.

Seeing her white-faced husband enter the room, Sam groaned, "I asked for no fuss. Really, this is nothing. I'll be right as ninepence in a mo."

Foyle was having none of it. He leant and placed both hands on the arms of Sam's chair, peering deeply into her eyes. Then he drew himself upright and turned to Charles. "Not terribly keen on leaving her, so you go on without me. Take Andrew out, why don't you? Moving targets are his speciality."

Charles cast his eyes in the direction of the entrance hall, now being briskly crossed by Georgie in the company of Andrew. "Yes, sorry, old chap, that's bloody. Of course, see to your wife. But Andrew," he smirked, "seems rather occupied with my young driver."

Why am I less than surprised? Foyle thought drily, turning back to Sam.

"Water for the invalid, as ordered!" Georgie's grand announcement turned all heads.

Noting Andrew's presence at the young woman's side, Sam suppressed a second groan. Might as well take out a full page announcement in the Sussex Advertiser after this. Smiling weakly to Christopher, she tried to salvage as much face as possible. "Sorry, Darling," she played to the gallery, "You did warn me not to over-indulge last night. Silly me. Can't hold my booze."

Over-indulgence. Foyle contorted his features at the uncomfortable thought that he was partly—strike that—thoroughly bloody responsible for her exhaustion. "Back upstairs to rest for a few hours," he told her firmly. "Drink your water. Andrew and I will get you upstairs." He turned and gave his son a pointed look.

Andrew recognised a call to active duty when he heard one. "Yes, of course, Dad. Sorry you're unwell, Sam."

"It's… all right, Andrew. I can manage perfectly." Sam rose, reeled, and sat down again abruptly.

Fixing his son with the same wide-eyed imperative that Andrew remembered so well from his childhood, Foyle nodded once towards Samantha.

"I've got her, Dad. Excuse me, Sam." Before she could protest, Andrew had scooped Samantha from the chair and up into his arms. As he carried her upstairs, with his father bringing up the rear, he murmured, "I suppose you're still a little angry with me," in Sam's ear.

"What do you expect? Put me down, will you?" she hissed. "I'm being made into a spectacle." Then, squirming to look over Andrew's shoulder, she pleaded, "Christopher?"

"He'll put you down when I tell him to."

Deposited on the bed, with Andrew gone, Sam addressed the tailboard over folded arms. "Why did you let him carry me upstairs?"

"You weren't steady on your pins."

"All right, but. You can lift me easily. I know you can."

Foyle's eyes twinkled. "Thought I'd allow him to impress Miss Rose. 'Sides which… why keep a dog and bark yourself?"

"Really," grumbled Sam. "You Foyles are quite as bad as one another."

"Gosh, you picked her up as if she were a bag of feathers," an awestruck Georgie called up to Andrew, as he trotted back downstairs towards the hall. "I haven't been swept up in someone's arms like that since I was a little girl. Is Sam going to be all right?"

Andrew splayed both hands uncertainly. "Dad's with her. Don't suppose he'll let her do herself an injury." He shook his head disapprovingly. "But she should keep off the sauce. Got no head for it. That much is obvious."

Not wishing Sam to get a reputation as a lush, Georgie dived in to salvage her new friend's good name. "It's probably just because she's expecting," she supplied anxiously. "I don't believe she had more than a glass at last night's do."

Andrew looked at her as if she'd grown two heads. "Don't be daft, Georgie. Sam isn't expecting anything beyond a headache. She's got a hangover." Even as the declaration passed his lips, a sudden feeling of disquiet crept in.

Georgie's eyes stretched in alarm. Andrew doesn't know? Sam had made it clear that her happy news was not yet public knowledge among 'people', but Georgie hadn't dreamed they would be keeping such important news from Andrew. How was Andrew 'people'? Her cheeks caught fire. She'd let the cat out of the bag, and that was unforgiveable.

"Oh. Well," she backpedalled hastily, forcing a grin, "I'm sure you're right. Champagne can be a killer." The walls and parquet floor took on a new fascination for her while she grappled for an escape line. "Think I'll just nip out and check the Riley. Plugs and… stuff… or… wotsit." Nodding to herself, she made a rapid move for the front door.

"Whoah, no you don't; not so fast, Miss Rose." Leaping down the last few stairs, Andrew reached to catch her by the elbow.

He eased her gently round to face him, and bent to peer into her eyes. His lips puckered hesitantly round the question forming in his mind: "Wwwwhat… do you know… that I… don't?"

"Nothing." Georgie's voice was small, her pupils wide with the anxiety of being under scrutiny. "I just thought… I'm probably wrong. Heh."

Andrew's eyes narrowed as he prepared to smoke her out. "You"—he assessed her coolly—"are a very poor fibber, Georgie. Tell the truth. Now."

Georgina Rose stared up at him through huge brown orbs. "I can't. I have. I didn't know that you—" she squirmed. "It's not my pla—"

Tired of playing fair, her eyes strayed down to where his hand still hovered loosely at her elbow. Her lips turned up in triumph. "Take your hands off me, you bully!" she told him self-righteously.

"Wha?" Out-manoeuvred by a raven-curled spitfire two-thirds his size, Andrew snatched his hand away as if he'd just been burnt.

Georgina folded her arms and gave him a look of smug superiority.

Exasperated, Andrew shoved his hands into his pockets and began to pace the entrance hall, unravelling the implications of what he'd just learned. His pacing brought him back in front of Georgie.

"She can't be," he pleaded. "He's too old for… to be having children. It's just… preposterous," he added, for good measure.

Georgie's eyes flashed, and her lip curled into an indignant sneer. Arms still folded, she swung one foot back and kicked him once, hard, on the shin.

Andrew gasped in pain. "Ow! Georgie! Ow! For pity's sake! What the—" He bent and rubbed the throbbing spot below his knee.

"My father's seventy, my mother's forty-five," she hissed. "There's nothing wrong with that. You take it back! You horrid person."

Horrified and smarting simultaneously, Andrew saw at once he'd have to eat his words. "Look, Love, I'm sorry. Might have been a little hasty…" Even as he paid lip-service to regret, he still consoled himself there must be some mistake. "In any case," he grated out, still rubbing at his shin, "Sam and Dad have barely been married a fortnight. She wouldn't be able to tell that she was in the family way yet…"

Andrew stopped mid-flow and blanched.

Georgie, having previously failed to do her sums, blinked for an awkward moment. But she recovered her composure in a beat. To Georgie's way of thinking, Sam's dates paled to insignificance alongside Andrew's villainous assessment of a circumstance so closely mirroring her parents'. In any case, to Georgie's mind, it sounded quite the romance, thank you very much. And Mr Foyle had married Sam, so bully for them both.

Foyle fils broke off from massaging his shin-bone, and flexed his knee experimentally. Relieved to find it in working order, he stuffed his hands into his pockets yet again and resumed his restless stalking about.

This revelation called for serious thought. Might the child not be his father's? Had his sterling-hearted dad offered Sam marriage to cover her indiscretion with another man? God knows, his father had a soft spot for her. Or perhaps the indiscretion was his father's after all. A momentary mis-step for which his dad was duty-bound to make her reparation?

Andrew's tongue traced thoughtfully along the inside of his bottom teeth, weighing up the likelihood of either scenario. He had to concede that, knowing both players as he did, neither situation seemed particularly plausible. Added to which, the evidence of his eyes—that fevered under-stairs clinch—pointed to an active and ongoing passion. Fine. His dad had put Samantha in the family way, then married her. But clearly from the under-stairs behaviour he had witnessed, there was sexual desire both ways, and tender, shared affection. Dammit. That translated into one word: LOVE. Just as they had told him all along.

He looked at Georgie, who was scowling at him now through slitted eyes. Georgie's parents—age-gap marriage, clearly still together. Marriages like theirs could last, and, according to the evidence, be happy. Here before him was the living, breathing, kicking— oh-my-God-this-new-romance-is-going-for-a-Burton —proof.

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

More soon.

GiuC