"This thing kills my passion," he says while slipping the wimple from her head.
"It serves the purpose," she murmurs, unbuttoning her habit's collar. "No one pays any attention to a nun travelling at night in Poplar."
"Can't have you taken for a prossie," should have been a gentle joke, but it's too close to the truth, and her kiss is hard and biting.
"Don't mark me now," he warns, even as his greedy hands push up the skirt, not waiting for her to take it off.
"Why not?" she hisses, "you're mine. All mine." To brand him, she turns her nails into his bared back.
In the remote shed at the end of a rubble-filled lane, their scrabbling and whimpers sounds like scurrying rats echoing in the fog and gloom of the night.
Faint footfall tap on the polished corridor floor, answered by a door cracking to emit a beam of light.
"Quick." Whispered urgency.
Yes, quick. Into the tiny box room, lips meeting, hands over clothing, then under. Nesting her nose into her love's neck, breathing deep of the familiar scent—floral perfume, strong carbolic soap, lavender from the laundry powder on her uniform. Her own dressing gown slipping open, to have her skin pimple in the chill and be warmed by stroking fingers.
She gasps. "Must be quiet," hisses back at her and she's held away.
But she reaches back. "I can't wait until I move into Nonnatus House. When we see each other every day."
Step away to stand as a dark silhouette against the narrow window.
"Pats?"
"It'll be alright. I'm taking care of things. We'll be together soon."
"Yes, yes—" Closing the distance, picking free the buttons down the front of her uniform. Under that practical wrinkled cotton, the satin sheen of her corset glistened.
"You are so beautiful."
A mistake. Compliments are never welcome; always make her muscles tense. A beautiful woman who sees something very different when she looks in the mirror. No more words—
Kisses along her collarbone, seeking the flush of her skin under the corset. Yes, they will always hide their heat, keep it shielded from the outside world.
When her mouth finds a nipple, the cry is ragged and needy, loud in the slumbering building. Together, they make shushing noises, an automatic reaction. Silence. Quiet. Darkness. Shadows.
The light snapping off and plunging the room to darkness is the start, not the end of the evening.
"Bloody hell, the bed's moving."
Her giggle fills the air. "I think it's us, not the bed. Haven't got our land legs back yet."
"You'd best lash yourself to the mast," he gasps. His chuckles shake the mattress like a raft shifting under them, caught on a current. With a quick roll, he lifts her above him, her curls swinging. "Hang on tight."
"I tell you, this bed is moving," she insists, clutching his shoulders for purchase.
"We'll just ride this storm out, shall we?"
Their combined laughter swirls in the darkness, caught in the hotel room's sheer curtains, pale as the fog billowing outside.
The lap of the river echoes her rapid footfall. After all these delays, she needs to get back before the nosy old bats checked her room and see she's not there. Not fearful in the dark streets—no one bothered a nun. When a shadow falls across her path, she isn't afraid, just impatient.
"You again!" she barks. "What do you want?"
Her answer is a sharp blow with a broken brick to her temple. She settles silent, a gentle fluttering of black and white wings, into a growing puddle of red on the glistening cobblestones. Her features stills in an expression of ecstasy and wonder.
The table was full at Nonnatus House, with every chair which could possibly fit around it occupied by nuns, nurses, and their guests. For the special occasion, dinner was tinned ham and boiled tongue, peeled potatoes and salad, with a big bowl of peaches and evaporated milk for pudding. But the offerings appeared so pale compared to the glowing faces of Dr and Mrs Blake. They were Australian, which meant not just their skin alight with bright sunlight of their homeland, but they had shining smiles, endless laughs, widespread arms.
The residents surreptitiously gathered their opinions of these visitors while passing the meal's dishes and jugs of water round. Mathilda O'Brien, the St. Bart's Hospital almoner and another Australian in their midst, had invited her friends to volunteer with patients for a week. But it was all so curious. Who would willingly come to Poplar whilst on their honeymoon tour from halfway around the world?
"When you've sailed so very far from—" fussed Sister Winifred. She waved her hand. "Down under." She smiled confusedly. "Come up from down under?"
Jean Blake, who was the bride despite her middle age, nodded with encouragement, even as her observant gaze swept over the nuns in avid curiosity.
"Poplar is hardly a popular honeymoon destination," pointed out Patrick Turner.
His own wife, Shelagh, squeezed his hand. "But remember, darling, we started our honeymoon here. It was lovely." Patrick returned the pressure of her touch.
Interrupting the pregnant pause, Lucien Blake chuckled, his dimples creasing his beard and his teeth twinkling from under his moustache. Trixie inspected him openly, thinking that he was quite handsome in a rustic sort of way. He reminded her of Rex Harrison in The Ghost and Mrs Muir, a favorite film from her teens.
Jean leaned in, making eye contact with them all in that forward manner of Australians. "Truth be told, after four weeks on the ocean liner, I'm fed up with this honeymoon—"
"What's this?" yelped Lucien. He draped his arm over the back of her chair and nudged her leg with his thigh. She looked at him under her eyelashes, bemused, and his lips twitched as he focused on her mouth.
Sister Julienne broke this second uncomfortable spell. "In any case, we're very grateful that you'll be lending a hand, making it possible for Dr and Mrs Turner to have some much deserved rest and time with their children."
The mentioned couple tried to appear pleased, but were watching the interlopers warily.
Jean explained: "I've worked my entire life, and like many a hard-working woman, I dreamed of being waited on hand and foot, lolling around all day eating sweets—"
Sister Evangelina, who'd also been observing suspiciously from the far end of the table, sniffed loudly.
"But truly, within a few days, I was going mad. Gourmet meals, our sheets changed the moment we stepped out of the suite, dancing under starlight every evening—" Jean held up her hands. "It's utterly dull now. When Mattie suggested we come out here to help—"
Lucien nodded. "Goodness yes, We jumped at it. All hands on deck, right?"
Phyllis Crane spoke up, cutting off Sister Evangelina's second indignant huff. "You'll find that the maternity home is hopping, and on Tuesday that we run a very busy community clinic, then there's Dr Turner's rounds. Our patients suffer from the sorts of complaints common to poverty and ignorance. What patients does your practice see?"
"Mostly general practice, although I am a surgeon as well. My surgery is in our home. A regular country doctor."
Shelagh and Patrick exchanged worried looks.
"But I've had experience with much more high stress situations. In the war." Lucien gave a brief smile but Trixie noticed there were no dimples this time.
"Where'd you serve?" Patrick asked with interest but when Lucien replied, "Asia," with no more information, he let the matter drop. They'd not crossed paths, it would seem.
"I'm Lucien's medical receptionist. I'll be happy to help as well," Jean said to Shelagh.
"We'll have to see," Shelagh said shortly. "I have a system, you see."
"And I have my Rolodex," cut in Phyllis. The other nurses fought to contain their amused expressions. The Blakes would soon learn about Nurse Crane's scheduling.
Lucien smiled reassuringly at the Turners, but then focused on Phyllis, asking her questions about the sort of cases seen, numbers of patients served, economics of the area, and as her hackles smoothed, so everyone else at the table relaxed.
The conversation flowed, with only the occasional bump such as Barbara asking if Jean had a problem with kangaroos in her garden.
"No..." Jean said slowly. "They prefer the golf course. Wide open spaces and the like."
Barbara blushed. "I just suppose that's what we think of Australia. Kangaroos hopping down the street, koalas in every tree—"
"I know what you mean," Jean said quickly, ready to make the young woman comfortable. "When coming to a big city like London, I think of murder—Jack the Ripper, that sort of things." She looked around the table. "Mattie tells us that you had a murder right here in Poplar."
Mattie gave a dramatic shudder, which seemed out of character for a young woman who'd proved to be very level-headed in her service as a community social worker.
"Yes, a woman's body was discovered near Blackwell Basin," Sister Julienne said soberly, glancing at Patsy. The usually vivacious nurse had been unnaturally quiet, her attention firmly on her plate. "A terrible shock for us all."
"I can't even imagine finding a murder victim," breathed Jean. "Simply terrifying."
Lucien asked carefully, "Mattie said that the victim was dressed as a nun?"
"That's true," confirmed Sister Julienne, "but she was not a member of our order, or connected to Sacred Heart either."
For the first time, Jean's cheerful visage sobered. "How awful. Do the police believe that nuns are being targeted?"
"They've told us nothing like that," Sister Julienne said, alarmed.
Sister Mary Cynthia was quick to add: "We feel very safe going out in all hours in Poplar, nuns and nurses alike. Even the roughest docker leaves us alone. They have mothers, sisters, their babies need to be born."
"So the woman was targeted for who she was? And do they know who she is yet?" asked Lucien, his face lively with curiosity.
"Sergeant Noakes showed us all the photograph, but no one recognises her," said Trixie. "Peter's an old friend of Nonnatus house, but now they've set some detective from Scotland Yard upon us. He is to arrive tomorrow and will surely grill us mercilessly," she added dramatically.
"He'll just be doing his job," Mattie said, then looked as though she regretted speaking.
Sister Monica Joan suddenly piped up, and at that moment, all the residents realised they'd been fearing what she might say. As expected, it was not polite.
"Citizenry of the Antipodes are most likely descended from blackguards and ruffians, off-loaded from our hallowed shores," she said haughtily. "Can you be trusted with our patients?"
Lucien's bright blue eyes sparkled and his grin widened. "I'm afraid that I'm from a long line of dull Scottish doctors."
"Speak for yourself," murmured Jean, still loud enough to be heard.
"That was a long time ago," Sr Winifred said, anxious to make amends for her earlier comment. "I'm quite sure that the Blakes are simply lovely people." Her smile was nervous again. "But of course you are in fact lovely people. We're so grateful that you have come." She passed the plate of sliced meats. "May I offer some tongue?"
Jean accepted the plate, but asked: "I'll be happy to help with the cooking as well. A month without even lifting a saucepan has left me quite mad."
"Jean—" said Lucien, "This is to be your holiday."
Sister Monica Joan was suddenly deeply interested. "Cooking? Do you bake?"
"Yes, indeed."
The old woman smiled encouragingly. "Do, please."
"Would you want something like a Lamington or a lemon curd sponge?"
"Yes." The old woman returned to carefully cutting her tongue and spearing it with her fork. Jean looked confused, but also continued to eat.
Only Sister Mary Cynthia had heard their exchange, and knew what would happen with Jean's generosity.
Once dinner was finished, recreation was taken in the lounge before compline for the sisters. Jean immediately checked through the sewing basket to see if there was anything that she could help with, and she assigned Mattie a few simple mending projects. The nurses watched this with amusement.
Mattie was their age, and yet at first when she came to Nonnatus House there'd been a bit of discomfort, as she'd left nursing to become a social worker. But already knowing Patsy from The London, she'd soon fitted in with her cheerful manner and quick intelligence, and her casework rounds meant passing on the rough streets daily. This was a new side though, to see her meek and compliant to a greater force.
Accepting that he'd also lost his battle with Jean, Lucien found the day's newspapers and settled on the sofa to read. Jean perched on the arm beside him, and his hand occasionally cupped her knee or smoothed down her back while he flipped through the papers. She pressed a kiss to his temple as though reassuring him that she was in fact, very much there.
"You two make me so happy," Mattie said suddenly, her mending forgotten on her lap.
"Silly girl," Jean said, but smiled back.
"Alright then. Your happiness pleases me."
Barbara gave a sigh as she watched. Mattie had introduced the Blakes as her second family, but Barbara's parents were nothing like this, with her father's wispy fringe and baggy flannels, and her mother's ruddy plump face perpetually fretful Dr Blake was running his hand up and down Jean's spine again and gazing up at her with a sort of childlike wonder.
"I'll go and have a bath then," Patsy said, and rose from her chair abruptly, as though something about the guests disturbed her.
Trixie stopped her as she went past. "Is there something wrong?" she asked, low.
"No, nothing." Patsy pulled free and left the room.
Sister Julienne checked the clock. "It's time for compline, so we'll say our good nights, Dr and Mrs Blake. We'll see you in the morning." All the nuns put aside their handicrafts and stood, smoothing their dark skirts before falling into step behind their leader.
Jean watched them go, her usually nimble knitting needles stilled. In a few minutes, the nuns' singing could be faintly heard. She began to check her stitches, but her fingers were trembling on the yarn. Lucien gave her back another rub, his face concerned.
Phyllis misunderstood. "After they finish with compline, they'll get ready for bed, and the Great Silence falls. You'd never believe you were in the midst of the East End, it's so silent in this old pile. I would think that you're used to quiet, being from Australia."
"I'm sure it'll be fine," said Jean, rising. "We'd best get in line for the bathroom."
Everyone exchanged goodnights, and the regular residents watched the couple leave, their interest still piqued.
Patsy lay in bed until she heard Trixie's breathing level and become regular. She carefully turned the cover over, and put on her slippers and dressing gown. Creeping toward the door, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She froze when she stepped on the loose floorboard and it creaked.
"Pats?" Trixie mumbled.
"Remembered I hadn't updated the logbook from my rounds. Be back in a tick."
Trixie fell back to sleep and Patsy opened the door just wide enough to escape their room. The corridor was dark but for the light left on in the stairwell to dash to a ringing phone. From the shadows, Mattie's hand reached out and grasped hers, the other woman not making a sound.
As Patsy followed her padding down the corridor, she was reminded of sneaking out after bedtime as a little girl, her sister in tow as they'd meet up with Armaan, the son of their nanny. Together, the three children would capture frogs from the moonlit goldfish pond to race along the dark garden paths. Armaan and Hope, both dead in the war—
"In here," Mattie dared to whisper, her hand on a room's knob.
Patsy stopped her. "You haven't told them about—"
"It's not relevant, is it?" Mattie murmured back.
When she opened the door, the room was black but for a shadowy figure silhouetted against the window, pulling the curtains together. She pulled Patsy inside and closed the door behind them. The shadow moved toward them, giving Patsy a flash of fear. Mattie flicked on the overhead light.
Dr Blake came to stand beside his wife who perched on the edge of the bed. His gaze, so guileless and cheerful all evening, was watchful and sharp now. Jean, her legs crossed and fingers restless with her dressing gown sash, was equally serious.
"Lucien and Jean are here to help, Patsy," said Mattie, "they're going to find the killer."
~ end chapter 1
E/N: Must gratitude to Miss Ouiser and My Little Yellowbird for CtM help and thoughts, Crinklybrownleaves for Proper Brit Speak, London tips, and a proper slap to syntax, AussieGirl for Australian thoughts, and HikerLady for a steely gaze.