Note: This takes place at the end of the first season of "Foyle's War," during and after the episode "Eagle Day." This episode has a theme running through it of the changes in sexual morals that were beginning to take place during the war. Sam's father, for instance, mentions the scandalous tales he has heard from his parishioners of their unmarried daughters getting pregnant while serving in the female forces. My question is: how do Sam and Foyle handle their increasing attraction to each other, in light of Foyle's professionalism and Sam's inexperience? I'm writing this fanfic as if this episode were really all about Foyle and Sam's burgeoning relationship, expanding on a few hints that are already there.

Sam thought long and hard about how she would present her case to her father. She knew that he was coming to Hastings to try to bring her home, and she was determined to present a strong case for herself, regardless of the outcome. For days, she created lists in her head of reasons that she thought were strong enough to compel her father to change his mind. I'm working for the war cause, even if I'm not caring for soldiers or growing vegetables. Without the police, in times of war, criminals can get away with murder. Hadn't she already seen how willing people were to commit crimes when they thought that the Germans would invade any day? The police are the bastion of the moral order, she thought. My virtue is safer working for them than for anyone else. If only her father could meet Mr. Foyle! Then he would see what kind of man she worked for – not the kind of man who would take advantage of his young driver's innocence, though Sam found herself wishing that he would pay a little more attention to her overtures of friendship. That was all she wanted, she told herself firmly: friendship with Mr. Foyle, Detective Chief Superintendent.

Sam found herself ever on the lookout for opportunities to get to know him better. It had become a game, of sorts, between the two of them, she pushing to see how much he would give in before he chided her or ignored her. Not long ago she had managed to invite herself to dinner with her boss, somehow securing a Italian meal in a fancy restaurant. They could have been father and daughter, or husband and wife, dining there that evening. Not for the first time around Foyle, Sam felt quite grown-up - a woman sharing an evening with a man, as she had long wanted to do. She was pleased that Mr. Foyle was that man, for there were few grown men that she had felt so comfortable around, even before she had started to work for the W.T.C.

As he seated them, the restaurant owner had shared a look with Mr. Foyle that Sam could only have described as "knowing." But what did it really mean? What could he know about them? Sam rather liked to think that other men might admire or envy Mr. Foyle for having such a young and pretty woman as his companion. If he hadn't stopped her from wrangling for his time before now, she concluded that, at some level, Mr. Foyle actually liked her questions and her company.

Sam remembered, with some guilt, the look on Mr. Foyle's face when she had accepted a date with Tony not seconds after they had left the restaurant together. She still didn't know why she had done that. Part of her felt sorry for the young man, who was so earnest and likeable. And perhaps another part of her felt interested to know what Foyle's reaction would be to seeing another man pay attention to her. It was evidence that she was attractive to men, even if Mr. Foyle insisted on treating her like any other employee. But even after going on a few dates with Tony—awkward affairs where she felt as if she were merely playing at being a woman—she had concluded that she felt much more comfortable, more alive, even, in her boss's company. Although it had been difficult to do so after the death of Tony's father, she had finally told him that she could only write to him as a friend, not as his girl. Tony was disappointed, showing faint tears in his eyes, as Sam broke the news to him. She was disappointed, too, in herself, for having let become so serious a flirtation that was started to merely provoke her boss's reaction.

All that, and now to think that she might have to leave Hastings and never work with Foyle again!

For his part, Mr. Foyle had a headache thinking about the trouble it would take to find someone to fill Sam's shoes. He tried to tell himself that it was the bureaucratic mess that he dreaded, not her absence, but he quickly chided himself for that bit of naive rationalization. No, he would miss Sam because she was Sam, his driver and, despite himself, a now dear companion. She had a quick mind, eager to learn and to please, even if she sometimes went a bit too far in involving herself in a case. Obviously, she was intelligent and he didn't doubt that she would be well-suited for a career in the police if she hadn't been female. It was a pity that his country had only now begun to women the opportunity to work, he thought. Of course, teaching and nursing and caring for children had always been jobs available to women, but Foyle remembered how his own Rosalind had balked at the idea of becoming an art teacher, left with few other options. She had told him, when they were married, that she wanted a small family, the better to pursue her painting. After Andrew was born, they were always careful to use johnnies, so she wouldn't get pregnant again. Foyle didn't like the blasted things, but he conceded that they were preferable to having a child that Rosalind didn't want. He had sometimes wondered what it would have been like to have a larger family—he would have liked daughters as well as a son—but Andrew had turned out to be quite the handful by himself.

The detective looked over the files spread over his desk. How had he gotten from solving the problem of his driver's departure, to thinking about Rosalind and babies? It had been a long time since he had dared to think about his dream of having more children one day. Just the night before, when he and Andrew shared a drink in the living room, his son had asked him if he had ever thought about getting married again. They had been talking about Anne, the female sergeant that Andrew had met at his R.A.F. post. He had expressed a wish to send her flowers, lamenting that her aunt already owned a florist shop and they would probably not be appreciated by her. Foyle had responded, "I don't think there's any such thing as a girl who can't stand the sight of flowers, is there?" What would Sam say if he ever presented her with flowers? he wondered briefly before stifling that fantasy. As if I could ever get away with doing that. She wants a young man, like Carlo's son, or Milner, if he weren't still hung up on his wife. Not an old man like me. And being her boss certainly wouldn't help my cause any. But still, Foyle's mind lingered on the image of Sam accepting a bouquet of flowers from him. Perhaps he'd find an occasion to bring her flowers, after all-or invent some such reason. He would like to see the surprise and delight in her face. Flowers were one luxury that rationing had not yet done away with; they still grew along every country lane.

Christopher Foyle played with the buttons on his waistcoat as he twirled his whisky with his other hand. Part of him liked these conversations with Andrew, where his son confided his latest infatuations to his father, while another part of him felt like an old man in comparison to his son's exuberant chasing of women. To be sure, if Andrew was like most young men, then he was probably apt to talk a lot but see little action where the girls were concerned. Foyle, in contrast, preferred to play down his relations with women when chatting with his son; better to hint at much and reveal little. It was none of the boy's business, in any case.

"Aren't there times when you think of..." Andrew had started, trailing off his sentence. His father knew what he was getting at but would not give his son the satisfaction of answering his subtle question.

"Think of what?" Foyle asked, pointedly, the way he did when Sam asked him a question he didn't want to answer, forcing the other to repeat the question and feel foolish in comparison.

"Well, you know, marrying again," Andrew said, looking down at his drink. He had finally said it outright to his father. You're a handsome, clever guy, Dad, he thought. And kind, too, though not many people know that about you. You don't know how many women would be happy to have you.

"Here we go," Foyle said, reaching for his drink, anticipating that his son wasn't going to stop there. Sure enough, Andrew pressed on:

"Is there somebody else?" What, did his son actually believe that he had stopped thinking about women since his wife had died? It had been a few years since Foyle had sought out female companionship, but he wasn't going to tell his son about the affairs that he had had since becoming a widow. Better not to scare the young man outright with his father's confidences.

"What, do you think I'd tell you?" Foyle asked, peeved. There was somebody else now, and Andrew had hit upon it - but he was definitely not going to mention his young driver to Andrew. Likely enough they would meet soon anyway and Andrew might infer what he would. He would already know, for example, that his father would never stand to have anyone around him whom he didn't like. And as soon as Andrew found out that Sam had been driving his father around for four months, he'd surely guess the soft spot that Foyle had for her. But until then, Foyle preferred to keep secret his relations with the gentler sex.

"Come on, Dad, it's been eight years!" Andrew responded.

"Andrew, I don't really think that this is quite the right time for this, you know." He stood up, signaling the end of the conversation to his son. He had meant to say that he didn't feel that any time was the right time to be discussing his love life with his son. But Andrew seemed to deliberately misinterpret his meaning.

"I don't see that the war makes any difference," Andrew protested. "Life still goes on!"

"Well, I certainly hope so," Foyle said noncommittally, keeping his voice even as he picked up a paper from his desk. Of course life went on! What did his son think, that he was still mourning Rosalind? Maybe Foyle had had some difficulty "moving on," as people said, after his wife's death. His love affairs since then had been brief and mostly forgettable. But then he had been assigned Samantha Stewart as his driver, and he quite rapidly and satisfactorily came crashing back to the present. Sometime, in the days between May and August in that year, he had begun to fall in love with her. He couldn't identify the exact moment - indeed, he had not even admitted this to himself, until this very minute, standing there with Andrew looking at him, waiting for his father to protest or answer. Foyle parried the conversation as only he knew how to do, changing the subject and thereby dismissing his son: "What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

Sam's conversation with her father took place over supper at the Royal Victoria, the sort of old-fashioned establishment where men like Reverend Stewart felt comfortable meeting their grown-up daughters. He was more aware than ever, as he saw Sam walk through the room towards him, of how striking a woman she had become. All the more reason to act now and get her to leave this post, he told himself.

"How's mother?" Sam asked, looking around.

"Much the same. She sends you her love. She worries about you. We both do."

"Well, I'm all right. It's only Hastings. It's not as if it's the other side of the world."

"Yeah, well, even so. We hear so much about young women these days, in uniform, in the forces." Sam looked uncomfortable. "Of course, I know we're out of touch. Lyminster's such a quiet place. But even if half of what we hear is true...young women in the W.A.A.F., in the A.T.S., in the Navy!"

"Up with the lark, in bed with a wren, that what they say," Sam blurted out, then mentally chided herself. Whatever had possessed her to say that particular joke? It was what they said about the "WReNS," the Women's Royal Naval Service, but Sam should have known better than to repeat that ribald joke to her father. Obviously her father already had his mind on people going to bed with one another, and then she had to up and put his fear into words. He'd never let her stay if he thought she was like that. An awkward silence lay between them. "I'm sorry, Dad, it's just a joke."

"That's my point, Samantha. I don't think it is a joke. I meet a great many parents whose daughters have gotten into dif-fi-cul-ties. It's my job to offer them pastoral care. And I have to say that it's my opinion that any sort of morality has been shot to pieces by this dreadful war. I read some of the bulletins put out by the Association for Moral Hygiene, for example, and quite frankly, I'm appalled!"

"Yes, but you needn't worry about me. There's no chance of me getting P.W.P!"

"I'm sorry?" her father asked.

"Pregnant without permission," Sam explained. Damn it, she thought. Just the sort of talk I was supposed to avoid! What will he think of me now? She looked up at her father, hoping he'd appreciate her humor. "Anyway, I'm not in the Forces. You should be grateful they moved me to the police. It's not the same thing at all." I'm stuck driving around a widower who is still in love with his dearly departed and I work with a sergeant who desperately wants his wife to fall back in love with him. There's not much chance there, I think, of my getting "P.W.P."

"Yes, I know they moved you. In fact, that's what made it easier for your mother and me to come to our decision."

"What decision?"

"I'm here, Samantha, because I want you to come home."

"What?" She couldn't believe it.

"Immediately. Your mother still isn't well, we both need you, we'd feel more comfortable knowing where you are."

"But I can't," Samantha replied with determination. She wasn't going to let her father make all of her decisions for her.

"It would be different if you were doing something important for the war effort. That's how you talked us into letting you go in the first place. But what is this job of yours? Driving a policeman round the country? Getting involved in murders? And Lord knows what else!"

"Mr. Foyle needs me," Sam said calmly. At least, she thought, I hope he needs me. One can never really tell what Mr. Foyle is thinking, or if that man has any needs at all. "And I do more than drive him! You don't understand," she said, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, Samantha, my mind is made up. I want you to come home."

She could not explain to her father what it meant to her to be involved in something as important and interesting as police work. Even when considering the other forces she might have gone in to, Sam couldn't imagine anything more fascinating than driving Mr. Foyle around the countryside, chasing down murderers and standing by as he interrogated suspects. Of course, it hadn't all been a "lark," either - the death of that boy, Billy, for example, had hit Sam hard. She remembered how Mr. Foyle had firmly instructed her to leave the shed where the boy's body was. He had averted his glance from her as she stood by the side of the house, crying profusely. He had not wanted to embarrass her any further, and she appreciated this small kindness.

It was the moments like these - the trust between the two of them, the thoughtfulness from him, the challenge of learning more about him - that she was reluctant to give up. And there was certainly no chance of her coming out pregnant from this line of work! It almost made Sam blush when she thought of her boss as a man who might potentially get her pregnant, as her father seemed to view him. But Mr. Foyle is not like that at all, she thought. He is a true gentleman, probably one of the few left. Besides, it's just a silly little infatuation on my part, the way that I feel towards my boss. If anything, I would have to be the one to speak to him first; even if he could feel the same way about me, he would never dare to approach an employee. A glimmer came into Samantha's eye. Maybe he wouldn't think about me on his own, but who's to say I can't have a little game of making him respond back to me?

Back at his office, Christopher Foyle almost chuckled as he remembered Andrew's reaction to learning that his driver was not only female, but young and pretty to boot. Upon hearing Sam's knock on the door the morning after Andrew's arrival, he had instructed his son to open it, knowing that a surprise would be in store.

Indeed, Andrew had been surprised. Foyle had overheard him saying "He never told me he had a - well - um, a girl. Especially such a pretty one."

Had Andrew thought that his father was keeping this information from him? In a sense, he was keeping it secret, the detective mused. It wouldn't do for Andrew to be poking into his father's professional - or personal - life. And it never hurt to take Andrew down a notch, this young know-it-all who couldn't help but think that every woman he met would fall in love with him.

But Sam was clearly not impressed by Andrew, and Foyle was amused by her response to him: "I see you don't hold back. You must have been well-trained by the R.A.F." She knew the reputation of the R.A.F pilots-those young, foolhardy men who were destined to fly high and fall fast - a new cohort of Dedalus and Icarus for this second Great War. How many would get shot down over Europe in the months and years to come?

But while Sam refused to accept the war as an excuse for improper behavior from pilots, Foyle preferred not to think about the danger his son would soon be in. He recognized the urge, common among young men about to be deployed, to flirt with everything in a skirt and to grab pleasure where they could. Freud would have called it "the use of Eros in the service of repression of the fear of death," or some such thing. Freud's famous exile to London a few years ago, and his subsequent death during the last year, had kept the psychoanalyst's work in the public eye. Foyle admitted to enjoying the theories that the Viennese doctor had put out, but more than the theories, he admired the man's eye for detail and his intimate understanding of his patients. If only Freud had been a detective, he had thought more than once. Then we would have seen a veritable revolution in crime-solving.

"Have you met many pilots?" Andrew asked Sam.

"No," Sam said. "I tend to mix more with policeman." In the other room, putting on his tie, Foyle could hear everything. "Just as well, really." Ha! Foyle thought. Sam preferred policemen to pilots! One point for him!

"Look, I didn't mean to offend you. We've got plenty of W.A.A.F. drivers. I just didn't expect to meet one driving my dad." Even from the other room, Foyle could see how Andrew looked up and down Sam's uniform with an approving glance. This seemed to annoy her even more.

"Well, I was hoping to cook and knit balaclavas for His Majesty's forces," she said sarcastically, as Foyle came into the doorway, making the last adjustments to his tie. "But here I am."

Foyle spoke: "You two have met, then." Sam answered "Yes," Andrew looked down sheepishly, realizing that his father had overheard the entire conversation, including his unsought praise of Sam's looks. It was just like his father to not tell him the most important detail about his new assignment in Hastings, and let Andrew find out the hard way that his father was spending his days with a girl pretty enough to be a movie star! Foyle had given the smallest of smiles to both of them, satisfied that his relations with women would continue to be a mystery to his high-flying son.

To be continued...