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Thursday 11 January 1945

DCS Foyle was finishing a late lunch at the Crown and Anchor in Winchelsea, accompanied by his driver and his onetime sergeant. Now that Milner had been promoted to inspector he did not assist Foyle on cases, so outings as a trio were no longer routine. Today, however, they had joined forces on a visit to Rye to compare notes with their chief inspector over a rash of robberies that had cropped up across Sussex and Kent, stopping for a meal on the return journey.

An icy wind was ripping across the South Coast, so Foyle was happy enough to linger over lunch with his two companions, seated near the welcome heat of a coal stove near their table. It was, he thought, quite like old times. He was pleased to have Milner back in Hastings, his undercover operation successfully concluded, and was even happier that Sam had returned from her holiday visit to Hampshire in considerably brighter spirits. Obviously getting past the hurdle of the first Christmas without her parents had done her a world of good.

Got something of her old sparkle back, especially today, he thought, watching as she and Milner smiled at each other. The two, tucked side-by-side in the booth opposite him, had clearly fallen back into their comfortable companionship after the long separation. Good to see.

He took a last swallow of cider and set his glass on the table. "Best be getting back, I suppose," he said a little reluctantly, reaching for his hat. Across the table, Milner and Sam exchanged glances. Before he could consider the significance of this, Milner spoke.

"Actually, sir, there was something we wanted to tell you."

"Oh, yes?" Foyle set his hat back down and looked questioningly at the pair as Milner brought his right hand up to rest on the table. Several facts struck him simultaneously: first, that Milner had said we, not I; second, that he was holding Sam's hand; and third, that on her third finger was an unfamiliar glint of silver.

Christopher Foyle could count on one hand the number of times he'd been rendered speechless in recent years. His keen intuition, his eye for detail and his vast experience of life made him a difficult man to surprise. But this revelation, confirmed by Milner's simple "We're getting married", left him, in the pithy expression of an old Geordie mate from his Army days, gobsmacked.

He looked from the ring – a rich blue topaz set in delicate silver filigree, perfect for Sam – to Sam's blushing, happy face, to Milner's proud smile. "Uuuhhh," he managed, "Ummm … rrrrright. Well, that's …" Then a smile spread across his face, an unrestrained, very un-Foyle-like smile the likes of which Sam and Milner had rarely seen him wear. A moment later he was on his feet, reaching across the table to shake Milner's hand. "Marvellous. Congratulations. Well done, both of you."

Later – after he'd kissed Sam on the cheek, after he'd admired the ring, after he'd gone up to the bar for a celebratory round to toast the couple – he began to wonder about the details. How long has this been going on? They didn't even see each other all autumn; he was in Liverpool. So when did all this happen? And how did I miss it, right under my nose? With difficulty, he restricted his questions to those that seemed least intrusive. "When did you … ?" gesturing vaguely at the ring.

"Christmas – well, just after," replied Milner, still holding Sam's hand and looking happier than Foyle could ever remember seeing him. "Found the ring in an antique shop in Eastbourne last weekend."

"And when were you thinking of …"

"We thought spring. March or April."

"Jolly good."

"There's just one thing, sir." Sam, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during this exchange, addressed him directly. "A favour." She was still smiling, but in her eyes was the same expression of entreaty that he'd first seen years ago, when she'd asked him to intercede with her father about staying in Hastings.

"Yes?"

She drew in a breath. "Well, we've been talking a lot about – the wedding, you see. Trying to make arrangements. It's a bit … difficult, under the circumstances." Of course, Foyle thought with a pang of sympathy. After what she's been through these last months? "Anyway, I know it's rather a lot to ask, sir, but … it would be frightfully nice if … well, if you would be willing to give me away?"

Gobsmacked. Again.

He swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. She wants me to step into her father's place? Me? On her wedding day? His eyes met hers for a long moment, silently conveying everything he couldn't put into words, before he found his voice. "An honour, Sam."

Friday 6 April 1945

St Bartholomew's Church, Hastings

As the father of a son, Christopher Foyle had never expected to find himself where he now was – in an anteroom of a church, listening to the wheezy strains of the organ while waiting to escort a bride down the aisle.

It felt as though only a few days had passed since that momentous lunch at the Crown and Anchor, but then the pace of nearly all aspects of life in this spring of 1945 had accelerated at an astonishing rate. The Germans, after a last desperate offensive in the Ardennes, had now been pushed back across the Rhine and the defeat of the Nazis was clearly only months away. Weeks, perhaps.

In anticipation of the cessation of hostilities, Foyle had already filed his resignation papers with the Assistant Commissioner. He had seen the war through, done his bit. Soon he could relax, go fishing. Take up golf again. Spend time with Andrew, pray God his son came through the final push unscathed. Other, younger men could take up the fight against lawbreakers now. Men like Milner, who had recently been informed of his impending transfer to Brighton in early summer. He was ready, Foyle knew, to stand on his own. And he would have Sam by his side.

Sam. He glanced over at the bride, standing just a few steps away, seemingly lost in thought. What a long, strange journey he had made with this young woman! Through all the dangers, privations and struggles of five years of war she had challenged him, exasperated him, supported him and cheered him. He would miss her. He wondered if she had any idea how much.

"Sam?" It suddenly struck him that this might be one of their last chances to speak privately. After the ceremony, a small, quiet affair for only 20 guests, a reception was planned at Les Bijoux, the French restaurant that seemed to have a special significance to the couple. They didn't know it yet, but Foyle had already made arrangements to cover the bill, the best wedding gift he could think of. They would take no honeymoon now – "We'll leave it until after the war", Sam had told him – but were planning a long weekend settling into Milner's flat, turning his bachelor's digs into a home for two. Foyle suspected that they'd spend most of it in bed. He had, after all, glimpsed the looks that passed between them when they thought no one could see. Remembering the passion of his own brief honeymoon, a few precious days snatched while on leave from the Great War, he could only give them his silent blessing.

He was quietly delighted by this marriage between his driver and his protégé. Sam had been like a ship lost at sea these past months, but with Milner he knew she had found a safe harbour, a man who would protect her and love her as she deserved. As for him – well, Foyle knew only too well what that young man had suffered since the start of the war. He needed the stability of a loving marriage just as much she did. They knew each other very well and were temperamentally well suited, Milner's gentle steadiness an excellent foil to Sam's high spirits. And, of course, they loved each other deeply. The most important thing of all. Lucky Sam, lucky Milner.

"Sam." He spoke her name a second time, but again she didn't respond. He touched her gently on the elbow, pulling her out of whatever reverie she'd been lost in. "All right?"

She looked up and flashed him her sweet, girlish smile. "Yes. All present and correct." Despite her words, her voice was a little tremulous. Of course, this had to be an emotional day for her, joy mingled with sorrow.

He tried to think of something reassuring to say, what a father might say at this moment. "You look lovely, you know," he told her. And she did, in a silky day dress of creamy ivory with a frivolous little frill of a hat pinned to her hair. "He's a lucky man."

She smiled her appreciation. "Thank you, sir. And for doing this. It means a lot." Before he could reply the rector's wife appeared to beckon them out into the narthex. It was time.

He offered her his arm. "Ready?"

He could feel a tremor in the hand that slipped into the crook of his arm, and glanced down to see her bouquet of daffodils and irises trembling slightly. He straightened his posture to military crispness and tightened his arm muscles, silently giving her his support. As the organ music segued into Beethoven's Ode to Joy and they took their first steps down the aisle he murmured, "Steady on, Miss Stewart …"

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Finis

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to all who took the time to read this. I know most people who are into Foyle's War fanfic are in the F/S camp, but I hope I managed to make the Milner-Sam pairing believable. And I hope, too, that you guys got as much enjoyment out of reading this as I did out of writing it.

Feedback is always appreciated!