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Only You	By : Hazeleyed Category: 1 through F > Foyle's War Views: 6319 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Foyles War, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: Foyle’s War and its characters are copyright products of Anthony Horowitz. They are used without permission, but no infringement is intended.

Title: Only You (chapter 7)

Rating: 12, some sexual references, but nothing graphic.

‘Ship: Sam and Foyle. Still a WIP.

Only You (chapter 7)

Samantha Stewart was concentrating on the road ahead so fiercely that she already had a headache and they were less than halfway home. She tried to ease her shoulders into a more relaxed position, but within minutes she was scrunched up again. She surreptitiously flicked a glance at the rear view mirror to see if her silent passenger had moved at all since they left the Crown Inn early this morning.

He had not.

Sam had always thought the expression ‘deafening silence’ was such an odd expression, but now she knew it for what it was – an accurate description of a silence so profound that it seemed like pressure on the ears. Several times now she had inhaled with the intention of saying something, but then exhaled without a word crossing her lips. It had not helped that Foyle had taken one look at the map she had placed on the front seat and climbed into the back of the car. It made it more difficult to speak to each other and looked, on the surface at least, to be a pointed statement about how ‘things’ were going to be from now on.

Never had Sam required her stiff upper lip so much as she had today. She could hardly credit how quickly a situation could swing from one direction to the exact opposite, leaving her reeling in its wake. Few occasions in her relatively short life had made her as happy as she had been this morning, waking up next to Christopher Foyle with her hand held in his. While in retrospect she did concede that he had only been holding her hand to prevent her further – quite unconscious - exploration of his body, it hadn’t diminished her happiness.

Sam had ended up sharing a bed with Foyle quite by accident, a result of circumstance, but she had shared the bed with him in a biblical sense quite by choice. She had already been caught up in a maelstrom of powerful emotion before she had realised that Foyle was ill and probably not in full command of his faculties. A half-hearted attempt to check that he was aware of what was happening was only a sop to her conscience.

Despite this, Sam had been more than keen to explore uncharted territory with Foyle as her guide, and her judgement had been sound – he had made their time together memorable for all the right reasons. She had been eager for more such experiences, but Foyle had emerged from his sickbed with no memory of what had occurred.

A few days later, when Sam knew that Foyle was on the mend, she had deliberately provoked him into responding to her, and it had all been going so deliciously well until Foyle remembered what had happened before.

To say ‘all hell broke loose’ would create a false impression. Anyone who knew DCS Foyle would know that it was not his style to behave in such a manner, but he was perfectly able to convey his displeasure at his own behaviour. Sam had difficulty in understanding why he was so upset about everything, when they had both enjoyed themselves and they were not hurting anyone.

Needless to say, it brought an abrupt end to proceedings and Sam had been left alone when Foyle grabbed his dressing gown and wash bag before going to the bathroom. Physically and emotionally bereft, Sam had turned her face into his pillow and wrapped an arm around it, holding it close to muffle her distress. It had been of scant comfort, smelling as it did of Foyle.

Although she was thinking about recent events with sharp clarity, Sam was sufficiently in the present to remember to turn onto the main road at the next junction. Just to be on the safe side, she had the map on the seat to her left and had studied it thoroughly before they set out this morning. London was behind now and they were heading south towards the coast and Hastings. Tonbridge would be the next big place to rest up, spend a penny and perhaps get something to eat if possible. If they didn’t stop there, the next option would be Pembury where they would pick up the Hastings Road, but they would need petrol before then. She decided against saying anything about taking a break just yet.

Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle looked out of the side window of the car, absently noting the passing landscape and the weak wintry sun trying to break though the clouds. He silently sighed for the umpteenth time since getting in the Wolseley this morning. He felt awful on a multitude of levels. His behaviour had fallen far short of the standards that he set himself and he was angry that he had let his emotions overrule common sense and decency. He had betrayed the trust of a young woman who had every right to expect to be safe in his company.

The fact that she didn’t seem to view the situation with anything like the same interpretation was irrelevant. It didn’t matter how well Sam had been brought up, she wasn’t sufficiently old or experienced enough to understand how easy it was to get caught up in passion - but he was, and he should have known better. He should have called a halt to everything long before it got out of hand. He had been weak. It must not be allowed to happen again.

As if to undermine him, Foyle’s thoughts turned again to this morning. For as long as he lived he would never forget the feel of Sam’s skin under his hands, the sound of her sighs of pleasure or the touch of her lips.

Why did he torture himself?

He groaned under his breath and pulled his coat over his lap. Not for the first time he was grateful that he was sitting in the back of the car – he was shielded from casual observation, and it would require an active movement to get close enough to touch Sam at all.

Which, of course, he was not going to do.

Foyle sighed for the umpteenth and one time.

Thirty minutes later, they entered the outskirts of Tonbridge. Unbidden, Sam pulled into the petrol station. She turned off the engine and retrieved the petrol authorization form and coupons. The pump attendant came out to meet her and they sorted out the paperwork before the young woman dispensed the fuel whilst admiring the Wolseley.

Sam found the woman’s cut glass accent at odds with her filthy hands, but she obviously knew her stuff about cars. Smiling, she agreed that it was a good car, though a little heavy to steer when driving at slower speeds.

The young woman grinned.

“Isn’t it just! Father always says that’s why I drive them too fast. He hates it that all my brothers joined up before they were called up and he got stuck with the baby at work. He’d far rather I was at home with Mummy, but since I love cars and hate knitting balaclavas, here I am.”

Sam found herself grinning too, sharing the sentiment. Here was a kindred spirit – someone else who viewed the War as a way to get out more.

She was still smiling as she got back in the car and for some reason that made Foyle feel more grumpy. Giving it a moment’s thought he realised that he expected Sam to feel as miserable as he did. He caught her eye in the mirror.

“Know her?”

Sam shook her head.

“Not at all, she was just admiring the Wolseley.”

Foyle pulled his ‘ah’ face.

Sam took the opportunity to mention a break.

“Would you mind awfully if we find something to eat before we go on?”

Foyle stirred in his seat, looking up and down the road. There should be somewhere to get a meal in a town this size.

“Yep, I’m getting a bit peckish myself. Let’s see what we can find.”

Sam hid a big grin behind a smaller smile as she started the engine. He had said ‘we’.

There was hope yet.

A few minutes later they found a small restaurant and judging by the number of filled seats, it was managing the rations well. Foyle and Sam were shown to a table in very short order, and Sam was relieved that they wouldn’t have too long to wait as she was famished.

The menu they were each handed was short, but better than many they had seen. Sam eagerly looked at the options available.

“Well, vegetable broth with sausage dumplings sounds nice and filling. Ooh, vegetable pie with cheese and oatmeal crust! Mrs Harrison used to make that.”

Foyle viewed his own menu with slightly less enthusiasm than Sam while he tried to place the name Harrison. Ah, yes, Sam’s landlady whose house had been looted after it was bombed. Foyle was unaware that he was frowning as he remembered how easily it could have been Sam killed instead of the other young woman billeted there.

“It’s not that bad Chr…Sir. There are other choices.”

Sam ignored her slip-up and ploughed on. She felt awkward about calling him ‘Sir’, but was equally uncomfortable about using his Christian name if it reminded him of what he would rather not remember.

“Mmn, mostly herrings.”

Sam lowered her menu to give Foyle a small grin, trying, on the surface at least, to pretend that everything was back as it used to be.

“Cheap and nutritious, a good source of body-building proteins and vitamins A and D.”

Foyle looked over his menu at her, one eyebrow elevated. Sam shrugged one shoulder.

“Ministry of Food pamphlet. Very exciting.”

Any response Foyle was going to make was lost as the waitress came to take their orders. Sam requested the vegetable pie, and Foyle went for the broth.

Once the waitress had left, a silence descended on the table. Sam casually looked around the large room at the other patrons for something to do instead of Foyle-watching. No-one was looking in their direction, they were all too intent on their plates. It was a good sign, she supposed.

As Foyle appeared to be studying the painting on the wall behind her, and was clearly in no mood for chit chat, Sam remained silent. It was difficult at first as her brain kept attempting to find something to talk about, but then she retreated instead to her own private world.

Recently Sam had taken to using bits and pieces of her experiences when lodging at Steep Lane to make her own daydreams. She and Foyle had eaten together quite often, sharing their rations to make them go further – combined cooking used less fuel and fat. He had done most of the cooking, but Sam had watched and learned, savouring the closeness and the companionship. In the evening they would listen to music, read or attempt to play chess. Chess was difficult to concentrate on if you found yourself looking more at the person you were playing with than the chequered board. Reading was much easier if she stayed up in Andrew’s old room – she wasn’t so easily distracted by the waywardness of the little curls at the nape of a certain someone’s neck, or how much more approachable that same someone looked when not buttoned down in a full suit. Fleeting glimpses of pyjamas and dressing gown had Sam speculating on what they concealed.

Of course, now she knew exactly what they hid and her dreams over the last week had been much more vivid.

Sam felt herself flush and reached for her glass of water. The movement brought Foyle’s attention back to her, and her colour deepened when their eyes met. It was not the first time that she rued her auburn hair and fair skin. She sipped her water before blurting the first impersonal thing that popped into her head.

“We should manage to get home before it gets dark if there are no hold-ups along the way.”

Foyle’s expressive face told Sam that he was aware of her dissembling, but he didn’t call her on it.

“Mmm, I hope so. I need to see Milner before he goes home if we can manage it. Catch up on the work so far.”

Sam gave a single nod, but was clearly relieved when their meals were brought to the table.

The food was excuse enough not to engage in small talk, but as the time passed Foyle was aware that Sam was increasingly restive. He was suddenly reminded of an occasion when Rosalind told him that the then six year old Andrew wanted to speak with him after they had eaten supper. Even without her amused warning it was clear to her husband that the fidgety child had something he was bursting to tell him.

Foyle had that feeling now about Sam and his heart sank. He had felt a similar thing in the car earlier although he had ignored it in the hope that it would just go away.

She wants to talk about what had happened. Why do they do that? Why couldn’t they just leave well alone and move on?

He kept his eyes down on his soup bowl. This was not the place to get into any discussion that might be overheard. He hoped that Sam would restrain herself for now.

Restraint? Sam?

“Sir?”

Oh God, not now please!

Foyle couldn’t pretend that he had not heard her; he would know and so would she. He tried to aim for a politely dismissive tone in his enquiry.

“Mm?”

“I was wondering…”

Obviously not dismissive enough.

“I thought you might be.”

Sam looked a little surprised at his dry tone, but she leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“Would it be possible to -?”

Frowning, Foyle quietly cut in, unwilling to take the chance of her saying something that might compromise her good name.

“Look, you obviously want to discuss matters, but I don’t think this is the time or the place. Could you at least wait until we are back in the relative privacy of the car?”

Sam’s expression was briefly startled before comprehension took its place. Foyle was surprised to see a spark of humour in the mix.

“Well, it’ll be a little late by then. I was going to ask you if we were going to have pudding. But by all means, let’s forgo the Apple Charlotte or Eve’s pudding for -”

Foyle’s left hand came up to his forehead, half covering his eyes. He felt a complete fool.

“…a private discussion in the car. I can’t wait.”

The same recklessness that had provoked Foyle before surfaced in Sam. Her quiet voice was somewhat tart as she leaned towards her erstwhile lover.

“Actually, I’m lying. I’d rather stay and have pudding. Spotted Dick, I think.”

Foyle’s fingers parted on his left hand and he stared at her in disbelief through the gap.

Sam calmly looked back at him.

“Then we can talk, if you still want to.”

X X X X

Half an hour later they were back on the road. Sam’s calm exterior was a front for the churning stomach and clammy hands. She had eaten her pudding with a desire not to waste the food rather than any real enjoyment.

Foyle had gruffly apologised for his assumptions as they waited for the bill. Sam had accepted them with a small nod, not willing to appear to give in too easily. He had behaved badly for such a gentleman, but she would forgive him eventually, she always did.

To Sam’s pleasant surprise Foyle took his usual place in the front passenger seat after folding away the road map. He appeared to be confident that she knew the rest of the way home from here.

Ten minutes of silence reigned before Sam took the initiative simply because she couldn’t stand to wait for another second.

“If we delay our ‘chat’ much longer we’ll be having it in front of Sergeant Milner.”

Foyle sighed. Life used to be so much simpler.

“Very well. What did you, umm, want to discuss?”

Sam glanced at him quickly.

“Nothing. I thought you did. You have already made your position clear and I have no choice but to adhere to it. Even if it isn’t what I wanted.”

Foyle frowned, trying to ignore the developing headache.

“What, exactly, have I made clear?”

Sam opened her mouth to answer before she had formulated it. Then she realised that he had not exactly made his plans clear.

“Well, you have plainly stated that you are unhappy with your behaviour; you think that you have behaved improperly towards me.”

She turned to him briefly, before looking ahead again.

“I don’t agree, by the way. It was all with my consent.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

“You said that you were going to get me moved, transferred back to the MTC.”

Foyle shifted uncomfortably. He’d had more time to think after he’d escaped to the bathroom and calmed down.

“Mmn.”

Sam felt a surge of hope. Perhaps he had reconsidered?

“Would it help if I offered to pretend that nothing happened? What harm would there be if we just go back to the way things were before?”

“We can’t. Things have changed. What if you call me Christopher in front of the others? I don’t want them talking about you in that unsavoury fashion.”

Foyle was thinking of the comment ‘officer’s bed sheets’.

Sam hid her smile. He could be so sweet.

“They wouldn’t talk about me like that; they all know that I’m not that sort of person.”

Foyle gave her a rueful glance.

“They are men, of course they would. There are a lot of men that think women shouldn’t be out at work, let alone in uniform, and they will take any opportunity they can to justify putting them back at the kitchen sink.”

Sam gripped the steering wheel tightly, then made herself relax her fingers.

“Well, I can’t help that. Personally, I think that once this war is over a lot of men will get a shock if they try to get the women to stay at home again.”

Privately, Foyle agreed with her, but they were getting off track.

“Mmm. Regardless of what you think, I don’t agree that we can just pretend that nothing happened and go back to the way it was.”

Sam’s irrepressible nature was obvious in her voice.

“Why not?”

“We can’t simply reset our lives as if nothing has changed.”

At least I can’t.

“But -”

“What if you’re pregnant?”

Foyle made his voice deliberately blunt in order to shock some sense into her.

Sam subsided momentarily, but then out of the corner of his eye he saw her chin lift.

“Well, if I am, I am. There would be no point in saying I’m ashamed, because I’m not. I don’t regret a moment of it and if there is a baby, I won’t regret that either.”

Foyle stamped down the traitorous flicker of happiness that Sam’s declaration caused. He forced himself to sound gruff.

“What will your parents think?”

“Oh, naturally they’ll be discreetly horrified…”

Sam’s casual tone irked Foyle, but she was probably right.

“…but they’ll rally round the fallen lamb. Father has ministered to the pastoral care of more than a few shocked grandparents-to-be.”

Exasperated, Foyle closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. Sam’s faith in her parents was good, but he wasn’t quite as sanguine as she. He pictured Reverend Stewart’s face and then swallowed glumly.

There was only one thing for it. It wasn’t what he wanted – at least, not like this and under these circumstances, but it couldn’t be helped. He coughed to clear his throat and ran his hand over the knot of his tie.

“We’ll have to get married.”

The Wolseley swerved slightly but Sam had it back under control after a brief but shocking moment in the middle of the road. She wished that she could have been looking at his face just then.

Sam swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Married?”

Foyle nodded once.

“Yep. Seems the best solution.”

Sam glared out of the windscreen.

Well, really! He might have managed not to make it sound like a trip to the dentist.

Sam was cross.

Only my second proposal and he’s managed to make it sound as exciting as sticking a plaster over a cut. No romance at all, not even a word of love or affection.

Honestly, men!

Would it be so bad though? Being married to him and having a family with the man I love?

Could I marry him without a word of affection being exchanged? I know he desires me, but is it enough?

Sam remembered with uneasiness Foyle’s desperate cry about Rosalind. He was still in love with his dead wife. She couldn’t compete with that, even if she wanted to.

Sam was near to tears. She wanted to be overjoyed that she was contemplating marriage, not apologetic.

“Thank you, but no.”

TBC.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Only You