A/N: Of course, none of this belongs to me, but to Jennifer Worth, Heidi Thomas and Alexander Pope.
"But now no face divine contentment wears. 'Tis all blank sadness and continual tears."
She knew the reference instantly. The midwives sometimes made a game of trying to guess the obscure origins of Sister Monica Joan's quotations and Sister Bernadette, educated at a young age by her father in the classics, and drilled in the Bible during her religious training, was quite good. Usually, the older nun's well-timed barbs made her giggle, particularly when Sister Evangelina was their target.
Today, she felt the words like a slap, a physical blow that made her shrink and quiver, pushing her out of the room and toward the chapel once more. She only prayed no one else recognized the source of the quotation.
Eloisa to Abelard, by Alexander Pope. A poem about a nun who falls in love with a man she can't have.
As she rearranged the altar flowers and blinked back tears, she wondered if Sister Monica Joan knew what she herself had only lately come to recognize: that what she felt for Dr. Turner extended beyond professional respect, beyond even friendship. She dared not call it love, not yet. The desire for his company might only be a symptom of the increasing claustrophobia she'd begun feel at Nonnatus, much like the disappointed resignation she experienced when called away from silly conversations with the nurses about dating and fashion to attend compline. Besides, she wasn't certain Dr. Turner returned her feelings, and what would be the point of subjecting herself to the pain of rejection when she couldn't have him?
There had been a moment earlier in the week at the clinic. They had been alone - a rarity - discussing repairs and updates to the aging facility. Though she'd insisted it was a waste of his time, he'd gently pushed her until she'd admitted that a few new screens and a water heater above the sink would help.
"And we struggle with these spirit lamps. They're so old-fashioned and so fragile," she said.
He moved closer and picked one up. "They must break so easily."
"Yes, and the wicks get damp and they won't burn." As he examined one of the lamps, she allowed herself to look at him, always careful of what she revealed. Her face, she knew, was too clear and honest; even as a child, she'd been a terrible liar. Too often, she showed her feelings before she even realized she felt them - anger, hurt, affection.
This time, she wasn't careful enough. He met her gaze, held it and his face softened with - what? Surprise? Tenderness? Longing?
She didn't have time to figure out what it meant before Timothy came running in. She suddenly became aware of how close they were standing. They both stepped back, the moment broken, and began talking about the three-legged race.
A moment over spirit lamps? It was utterly ridiculous, certainly not the stuff of her girlish fantasies (not that she had those anymore). She would have laughed if she didn't feel so guilty about it.
She heard footsteps and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Sister Julienne enter the chapel.
"Sister Bernadette, I owe you an apology. You asked to speak to me and I was distracted, and now Sister Monica Joan has spoken out of turn."
Had she known the reference? Did she suspect?
She had tried to speak to the sister before about her doubts, but that was when they still seemed manageable, when her temptations were small. Things like skipping services; enjoying the vanity of new glasses; treasuring the drawing that Timothy had given her the way a mother would. Each transgression by itself might be easily conquered, but piled on top of each other and compounded by the growing affection she felt for Dr. Turner and his son, they became a mountain of doubt too large to shift. And yet shift it she must. On her own.
"I didn't want anyone to notice. I didn't want to impose myself, to make any sort of demand on the community."
But Sister Julienne would not be deterred so easily. "It isn't an imposition to ask for help," she said, leading her to a chair. "And you did ask for help and I have come to offer what I can."
They sat and Sister Julienne waited, ever patient, while Sister Bernadette tried to gather her thoughts and explain her problem calmly and rationally.
But she couldn't. Her thoughts and memories came in fragments, like a shattered spirit lamp. Watching Trixie, Jenny and Cynthia leave for a dance, laughing and slightly tipsy. Taking off her wimple and brushing her hair in the mirror, reminding herself that underneath the habit she was still a woman. An illicit shared cigarette after the Carter twins' birth, and Dr. Turner's amused, slightly shocked smile. She enjoyed that smile a little too much.
She could confess to each moment, one by one, and she still wouldn't be sure what they added up to. The confusion and the guilt weighed so heavy, hurt so much.
"The truth is I hardly know what ails me," she said, her voice cracking with tears. She swallowed hard. "I almost wish I was physically ill. I want to be able to say, 'This is where it hurts,' because if I could list my symptoms, you could offer me a cure." She took a ragged breath and looked down at her hands. "But you can't, because I can't."
"But we have made a start, Sister Bernadette," she heard Sister Julienne say as she grasped her hands. "We're having a conversation."
Sister Bernadette nodded, grateful for the older sister's calm strength. It was a balm, much like a mother's love. "I think this is all that I can manage for today." She felt sheepish admitting it. Why couldn't she be brave enough to confess everything? To waste Sister Julienne's time like this, sniveling over feelings she couldn't name, was useless and cowardly.
She felt the older sister squeeze her hands again. "That doesn't matter," Sister Julienne said, as if she had all the time in the world to sit and talk and comfort Sister Bernadette while she cried. Such kindness did her in.
I don't deserve this, she thought, as she began to sob.