It was dark still when she awoke, though not for long. Belle knew she ought to rise and dress, dawdle in bed was one of Mother Superior's most frowned-upon of her sins. But, like every day, she didn't get up right away, rather sitting down on the thin mattress so that she could peer through her small window a few minutes the first rays of the sun started colouring the sky different shades of orange, gold and pink and though she did this every morning it never failed to utterly captivate her.
It was something she had enjoyed as a girl, watching the sunrise from the balcony of her lavish bedroom on her father's cattle station in the South West region of Queensland, Australia. Looking back she realized what a blessed child she'd been, with a doting father of means who didn't neglect his child in favour of business and an affectionate mother eager to teach her everything she knew, to fill her mind with knowledge. She'd come from an old and fine Belgium family, if impoverished, and had been the perfect daughter until she'd fallen in love with her father and run away from home.
Belle had, in her infancy, found the story terribly romantic. Her mother spoke of her native Brussels with obvious longing and nostalgia, but despite that, and despite the many hardships that she'd endured adapting to life in Australia, amongst the cows, the sun and the wild, she'd never given the appearance of regretting it. Far from growing to resent Maurice or her decision to give up everything for him Colette had remained as in love with her husband as the day she'd married him, if not more.
She had been taken away too soon, Belle had always thought that. And though she knew it was part of the Divine plan she'd struggled to understand and still did sometimes, when she dwelled on it and remember, quite vividly, being young and lost without a mother. She clung to every bit of her she could recall, especially how she'd tell her of her childhood wish to be a nun like the ones that lived in a nearby convent, tirelessly working and praying for the less fortunate. Though Belle hadn't found those stories particularly compelling her mother had known how to spice them up, talking about their nursing work in the Belgian Congo. Maurice had fought in Africa during the war and had filled Belle's impressionable formative years with stories of the continent's beauty, mystery and life. Belle would sit on the plush rug of her papa's study and listen to him talk for hours and hours, her eyes huge and shining.
Her mama had known how to gather that enthusiasm and direct it to her stories of the nuns that had so captured her heart as a child, wishing for Belle to develop a similar fondness. In the end it was all that Belle was left with of her when an illness took her quite abruptly. She'd been twelve and nothing had been able to comfort her, not even her papa's embrace. It had hit him hard too, his Colette's death, but he forced himself to bury his grief to tend to the child she'd left behind. Belle needed an education beyond what could be provided for her in Australia and so it was with a heavy heart that he sent her away to Belgium, to live with her Uncle Lumiere and go to school. Belle had known that's what her mother had wanted, for Belle to attend the same school she had and grow to be very knowledgeable.
Though being away from her papa had been hard at the beginning her Uncle Lumiere had done everything possible to see to her happiness. He was an affable, eccentric man, a renowned surgeon who had a bit too much fun flirting with the maids and saw no problem in lending his little niece very graphic anatomy books. Her uncle, far from discouraging Belle's interest in the human body and medicine, gave her the tools to pursue those topics, not only with books but also allowing her to visit him at the hospital whenever possible and letting her into his laboratory at home. He'd show her slides on the microscope and quiz her on what she saw, with a patience that would often remind Belle of her mother.
To her dream of seeing the world, especially the African continent her father had spoken so much about, Belle added a wish to pursue medicine. The only path that seemed to join both interests was her mother's beloved convent. She remembered the stories about the nursing nuns that braved the wilderness of the Belgian Congo to bring health and well-being to the people there. Her uncle urged her to consider the matter carefully, seeing if a celibate life of order and restraint was what she truly wanted for herself and though Belle didn't feel a particularly divine calling urging her to take the habit she didn't feel an inclination to marry either. The men she'd come into contact with, brothers of her friends mostly, of an age to consider marriage, had never appealed to her, nor had married life. Married women built a home and had little opportunity to see beyond, to prove themselves and what they could do. As a nun she would be honouring her mother's memory and also get an opportunity to pursue medicine, care for people.
She soon discovered she made for a lousy nun. What seemed to come easy to others- long hours in complete silence, discipline and order, humility and obedience- took Belle time and effort. She felt stifled the moment she entered the convent, and doubts plagued her as a postulant. She has been told it was perfectly normal and, indeed, the women undergoing the postulancy with her seemed to also be unsure and struggling, though none like her. She'd become a novice more through determination than faith and though the senior sisters were very encouraging none seemed to think she ever did anything right. All those qualities people had praised her for seemed to be sins in their eyes and it was only the complete certainty that a life married to one of those strapping young men who'd been sniffing at her outside the convent wouldn't make her happy that made her stay.
It was with a heart heavier than it ought to have been that Belle took temporary vows, leaving the last thing she had from her past life, her name, and adopting that of Saint Benjamin the Deacon and Martyr. And though those doubts had never quite subsided Belle had learned to live with them, her efforts being rewarded by God with an opportunity to go to a school for tropical medicine and, much later on, an assignment in the Belgian Congo.
She bore those heavy thoughts throughout her morning routine, dressing with care and joining her fellow sisters in morning prayer, where she asked God again to forgive her for her many trespasses and thanking him for her newfound peace. Since coming to Yakusu she'd finally been able to somewhat quiet the niggling voices inside her. She'd found herself to be correct, after all those years of trepidation: the mission was where she belonged and she'd done right by persevering through her many trials.
Sister James next to her silently admonished her for not following the scripture, which pulled her back to the present quite effectively. After prayers and a small, Spartan breakfast Belle rushed, as much as she was allowed, through the halls of the mission, greeting those she passed by and praying no one would tell one her for hurrying when she was supposed to always maintain a calm, dignified pace.
Once she arrived at the white hospital people welcomed her with relief plain in their faces. The nurses she supervised seemed particularly pleased to greet her, as was her deputy, Lungo. She went straight to the operating room to see that the instruments had been properly sanitized and, if applicable, stored away in their proper places. The doctor was particular about his order or, as he called it, his organized chaos, and though Belle had quickly gotten the hang of it some of the other nurses still struggled, particularly with the medicine cupboard. She worked with them diligently on it, but the terror they felt towards the doctor made them jittery and clumsy in the operating room from time to time. Outside their skills continued to grow and though Belle knew it was a sin she took pride in their progress.
"Ah, at last the hand of God delivers you to me, dearie."
She schooled her features to reveal little of her amusement over their now shared joke. Dr Gold looked, as always, extremely well put-together, clean-shaven and dressed in pristine scrubs and a lab coat. Beneath, she knew, he was wearing tailored khakis and a white shirt that likely cost more than the habits of all the sisters at the mission. She figured he'd doled out an extra dose of terror to whoever did his laundry and pressed his clothes to achieve such level of perfection. In spite of it she'd never seen the doctor shy away from blood, guts, vomit or whatever else might be considered an occupational hazard. He just miraculously seemed to stay spotless through the day, even when Belle herself went back to the convent with a stained habit almost every day.
"You might wish to get used to the fact that Reverend Mother will not be rescheduling morning prayers or breakfast at an earlier time for your convenience. We've been over this."
He made a gruff sound on the back of his throat, as if displeased, but his eyes shone with what she know knew to be mirth.
"I don't see why I should make peace with that. Aren't I, after all, the one doing God's work and performing miracles?"
Belle knew she should find his flippant attitude towards faith and God disdainful, but she could not help but laugh, however lowly and well-disguised. Once more she reminded herself that Reverend Mother had strictly cautioned her not to linger in the Operating room if there wasn't a procedure going on. Dr Gold, she told her, was a man, a bachelor and a non-believer and Belle wasn't sure which of those things she objected to more.
He talked about the day's procedures out loud and though she knew she wasn't supposed to comment or make suggestions, lest that be her pride again rearing its ugly head, she couldn't help herself. She never could, with him, but she reasoned that if her vanity saved lives it wasn't so bad. As they chatted he tried skilfully to make her reveal aspects of her life prior to entering the convent but, as she had left that life behind, she was not allowed to share any part of it. Sometimes she slipped, commenting on some childhood detail or personal preference and she'd look up to see him smugly smiling at her, tucking away her indiscretion like a coveted prize.
She'd long ago stop pretending to be angry at him about it, though those moments of weakness did heavily weight on her, more failings to add to her toll. She reflected on that as she prepared the tray with the instrumentation the doctor would need, as well as spare gauze and other necessities. A nurse joined them, tall, thin and incredibly scared in spite of towering over the surgeon barking orders at him. At last the patient was wheeled in and put under for the procedure. Belle dressed for the operation, washing her hands and donning gloves before locating herself to the right of Dr Gold.
"I need more light."
After a while with no one reacting to his command Belle motioned for one of the nurses to move a nearby lamp closer. Dr Gold's accent, inexplicably, thickened to an almost alarming level when he was operating, to the point that no one seemed to understand him other than Belle, who had developed an ear for it. The lack of refinement in it spoke of his harsh upbringing. She knew he'd been brought up in a Catholic orphanage after being abandoned there. It had been then that he'd developed a passionate hatred for nuns, whose methods to discipline children he considered barbaric and reprehensible.
At some point he'd been claimed by some aunts, who'd lavished on him the attention he'd sorely lacked in his early infancy. Sadly they died when he was seventeen, though they left him the means to attend Medical School in Edinburgh, a life-long dream that he was forced to put on hold when war erupted across Europe. He chose to enlist rather than wait to be called and his noble sacrifice left him with a shattered ankle and a layer more of bitterness. He was a brilliant surgeon, which made her wonder how he'd ended up in a small settlement in Africa instead of some important hospital, with innovative ideas regarding surgical procedures and tools. His ingenuity served him and his patients well, taking into account the many deficiencies he had to compensate for in terms of equipment and help. Lunga and the nurses, though eager to please, had no training other than what Belle had been able to give them in the time she could spare away from her religious duties.
"I bought a new book the other day... Well, traded it from Father Andre in exchange for a bit of whiskey when the Reverend Mother wasn't looking." He flashed her a predatory smirk, enjoying telling her about things she knew her superior mother would never approve of. He knew that, had she told the old crone about it she'd have pulled her out of the hospital, sending another sister in her stead. The Belle didn't do it, that she valued her job with him so much that she went against the obedience her vows demanded of her, pleased him to no end. It was his little way of laying claim to part of her soul, Belle feared.
"Anyway, it's called A passage to India, by Forster. I figured, having liked Howard's End I'd give it a try. Have you ever read it, sister?"
She pressed her lips together, trying not to recall sitting on a sofa in his uncle's library and reading said book, thinking A Room with a View was much better. She knew later she'd have to get down on her knees and beg forgiveness for such a trespass, as involuntary and innocent as it was, but far from being angry at the doctor she realized she was angry at God that she couldn't tell him about her small recollections.
When she never answered him he made a vague sound of displeasure.
"It's impossible to talk to someone who isn't allowed to remember," he complained out loud. She handed him a pair of thongs and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"It must be as frustrating as talking to someone who refuses to do so."
Before, when they'd first met, she'd reminded him constantly of all the rules she had to abide with, thinking his transgressions were involuntary, mistakes he made without meaning to. At some point, however, she had realized he did those things on purpose, and had then stopped acknowledging them for the most part, unwilling to play into his trap.
The rest of the operation went smoothly, as did the following one. Then she dragged the doctor through his rounds while he complained about his time being wasted, and oversaw the work of the other nurses, happy to see they didn't need her supervision as much anymore. She tried, really tried, not to feel annoyed whenever the clock bells told her that she must put on hold whatever gainful occupation she was doing and pray. It was a source of constant frustration to her rather than the solace it was supposed to be, a balm for her soul. Other sisters, she knew, took to their prayers gladly, seamlessly pausing on their work to attend to them and continuing afterwards.
Whenever Belle thought of those sisters she had to add envy to the list of her many sins.
By the time her shift was almost done Belle felt dread more than exhaustion. She liked the hospital, liked the work she did there and the way it felt comfortable like the mission didn't. She made sure to check the supply room one last time to see everything was in its proper place before turning to the operating room. Before she entered she heard low noises, and a bout of cursing she'd grown all too familiar with. She knew who she would find there before she opened the door and how: the doctor was sitting on the operating table, his right pant leg drawn up to expose his ankle. He'd taken his shoe and sock off too so he could better study the mangled tissue of his old injury. It looked red and angry, the wound, and judging by the hissing sounds that came from the doctor's lips it ought to be hurting quite a bit.
"You've overdone yourself again, doctor."
Everyone at the hospital thought Gold was almost god-like, a man with boundless energy and stamina, capable of operating on little sleep, food or drink and performing miracles on his patients. He cultivated such a larger-than-life reputation, finding it worked to his advantage as it made those around him so in awe of him that he could easily bend them to his will. Belle, however, had quickly seen past the facade, finding that Gold was a man, one in pain at that. He hid it well, pretended like it was more of a nuisance than anything, but it was all for show. Belle knew he took painkillers daily, though either common sense or an over-inflated ego made him keep to a small dose. Besides that his way of handling the pain was to pretend it didn't exist. That led, inevitably, to overexertion and his ankle swelling up.
Without missing a step she fetched some towels and some cold water, along with an ointment meant to alleviate swelling. When she finally entered the operating room he didn't yell at her to leave, like he had done the first couple of times, nor fight her when she wrapped his ankle tightly in wet towels before drying it off and applying the ointment. There was a strange sort of intimacy in it all, from the way he, albeit grudgingly, allowed her to see his weakness to the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips as she gently touched the swollen ankle, the scar tissue rough in some places and smooth in others. She didn't dare look up, knowing the look in his eyes, hidden beneath a curtain of hair, would unsettle her.
"Won't you be late getting back, Sister Benjamin?"
Though his tone was taunting Belle couldn't help but feel there was something hidden behind it, some coded message she was supposed to get. Nevertheless she agreed with him, swiftly capped the ointment bottle, gathered the towels, and wished the doctor a good evening. And though she tried to feel sorrier for being late than for leaving him, she failed.
At the beginning Belle's work with Gold brought her a newfound sense of peace, a reprieve from her many doubts. After all, what more proof did she need that she was where she was meant to be than the absolute certainty that Gold could not work with anyone else other than her? It was clearly God's work and she was finally beginning to shine light on the path she'd blindly stumbled through before. No one else would be allowed to notice when he was getting too tired after a prolonged operation and was having trouble remaining upright. No one else would be allowed to move closer to provide a shoulder to lean on without him lashing out. It was, surely, the way God intended. The fact that she didn't feel called was just a test, an obstacle she was meant to triumph over with determination, patience and prayer.
But after a while her newfound peace began slipping away, bit by bit. She blamed Gold for that. She wasn't quite sure when it had happened but at some point he'd discovered her hidden shame, her struggle. And ever since then he'd never stopped questioning her. He was subtle, so much so that at first she hadn't noticed it. His dismissing comments she chalked up to his almost innate hatred of nuns and religious orders in general rather than a personal attack. But the more he niggled, the more he questioned, the more she became convinced he saw the lie she told herself and others for what it was.
She tried to tell himself that Gold's insinuations and veiled accusations were the ramblings of a man angry at God. She knew enough about him to know that he harboured a great pain inside, something he blamed himself and God for, something he'd never been able to forgive or forget.
Had it been only the questioning, the insidious little comments or insightful jabs Belle might have been able to cope without much fuss. But after a while, the demands came. Demands for her time, for her attention, for her thoughts and insights, for her loyalties. The more she worked with Dr Gold the more he seemed to want from her, even though he knew perfectly well what she was and what she was not allowed to give him. But he took advantage of her weak spots, of her curiosity, her thirst for knowledge and her genuine desire to help others. He knew exactly when and how to trap her, to get her to spent time after a procedure talking about, exchanging ideas. How to get her to disregard Mother Superior's schedule to spend just a little more time at the hospital. After all, he argued, she was needed there, surely God would understand. Though other sisters were supposed to work with him he managed to arrange things so it was only Belle assisted him. She should've protested, should've fought him. The other sisters were terrified of him but she wasn't so she should've set things straight. But he challenged her the way no one had before, alive and valuable, with a purpose in life she shouldn't be ashamed of, shouldn't have to hide. Belle had the sinking suspicion that if she ever were to reveal all of herself to him, including her most secret shames and failings, her well-concealed imperfections, he'd accept her. More than that, he'd rejoice in her. Nothing before had made her feel so exhilarated or scared in her life.
It meant working long hours, longer the more she gave in to Gold and scrambled to still fulfil her duties in the eyes of the Reverend Mother. The long surgeries made her legs ache, which meant that when she laid down on her uncomfortable mattress, on a bed too small even for herself, sleep often eluded her. Her inner demons also plagued her, in the quiet hours after her nightly prayers, when she was for the first time in the day alone with herself.
Dr Gold seemed to oscillate between grudgingly concerned ("I've never seen someone be made so ill by their unwavering faith, sister.") or outright annoyed when she retired on time or trader her shift with one of the other sisters who were supposed to work with him ("You risk my patients' lives by forcing me to work with those clueless women. I thought nuns were supposed to be selfless, to put other people before themselves."). There was something else beneath the anger, though, something she couldn't quite make out.
Belle tried hard to hide it when her hands began shaking during the day. She grew very conscious of her movements, trying to exert the utmost control over herself even as it became harder to concentrate and so it was a white till her mind connected the dots and realized what fatigue, night chills, coughing and chest pain spelled out. It took even longer for her to gather the courage to administer a test, knowing a diagnosis of tuberculosis would mean her return to Europe without a fail.
Though she managed to push back the inevitable, throwing herself into her work to have no free time left to test her theory, it eventually happened that an afternoon came where she found herself with little to do. Reluctantly she locked herself in the supply room, took out a small blood sample and perused it under the microscope, easily finding confirmation of her worst fears.
The test was positive. She was going home.
Forcing herself not to delay the inevitable she went straight to the operating room, easily spotting Dr Gold reading from one of the medical journals he often tempted her with. She knocked softly to alert him of her presence and was rather surprised how he almost immediately tensed, knowing something was wrong.
"What is it? Spit it out!"
The fact he was being as gruff as ever was somewhat of a comforting notion, strangely enough.
"Doctor, I don't know what to do." Belle avoided looking at him, knowing she was going about things all wrong. She should be speaking with the Reverend Mother about this, not to Gold. But she knew that while the nun would immediately dispatch her back to Belgium the doctor would, if it were at all possible, fight to keep her there.
"I've got TB."
He closed the medical journal so violently Belle couldn't help but flinch on behalf of the poor book.
"Who says so?" He was using that tone of voice that usually sent nurses scurrying out of the room, sometimes in tears. "Who told you that?"
"I tested myself." It was strange how oddly calm Belle felt now that she was saying it out loud, confiding on someone else. "It'll mean my going back to Europe."
"But you're the only one in the whole of Congo I can work with. I can't lose you."
She felt a strange, sudden jolt at his words and the way he said them. In that moment Belle felt wanted like she never had before, in some new way she'd never before considered. Next to her Gold was pacing like a caged animal, going over the possibilities. Finally he reached out for his stethoscope, which he kept tucked inside one of his coat's pockets, and stop before her.
"Let's have a look."
She crossed her arms across her chest, hating herself for shying away from him.
"I'm not allowed, I should call another sister..."
"Let's have a look."
His tone brook no argument, no delay. Reluctantly and strangely jittery Belle untied her apron first, going to one side of the room while the doctor, to his credit, went to the other side and turned her back on her, giving her a modicum of privacy. Moving the white coif and scapular to the side she deftly reached beneath the guimpe to untie the upper lacings of her habit, baring with some difficulty her right shoulder and most of her upper back, holding the cloth close to her chest.
"I'm ready."
There was something strange about the way her pulse quickened and her nerve-endings seemed to stand on end as the doctor approached her, looking grim and determined. It was, she suppose, fear of him confirming her diagnosis, surely, of having final proof that her time in Africa was at an end, that she was going back to the Mother house and its restrictions and the restlessness that her work at the mission had banished.
"Take a deep breath."
One of his hands curled around her shoulder lightly over her partially-undone guimpe, but his thumb came to rest over her bare skin, making her gasp. The doctor moved the bell of the stethoscope lower on her upper back, instructing her to take a deep breath again.
"You must relax, sister, your thundering heart is making it difficult to listen to your lungs."
His thumb began to trail circles on her skin, a comforting gesture that Belle was sure was completely unconscious. It was strange to think that was the first time anyone had ever touched her there before. Gold's hand was big and felt warm and reassuring on her shoulder, but the innocent touch of skin on skin had the opposite effect entirely. It made her afraid but not in a way she'd ever been before. Her stomach cramped with nerves, though it was a rather pleasant sensation.
"Breathe again."
His tone had changed. It was rougher now, like a low growl instead of his usual sharp bark. The metallic bell pressed lower on her back and then to the right before moving up again.
"Cough."
His accent practically butchered that one small word but Belle understood all the same and obligingly coughed as many times as he asked. She was surprised to notice that, after a while, she didn't feel embarrassed about her back being on display despite the foreign nature of the concept itself. It was liberating, even exciting, in a way.
"Cough again."
He pressed the metallic bell harder against her flesh, seeming to lean towards her for a moment before he violently pulled away. She refused to dwell on the puzzling sense of loss she felt, quickly retying the laces of her habit and putting everything else in place.
"Well?"
The smile Gold gave her was almost boyish, contagious.
"We're lucky, sister. It's a small summit lesion and it appears that we've caught it in time."
She observed him as he put his stethoscope away and, looking utterly relieved, reached out to squeeze her arm, though he quickly retreated once he realized what he was doing.
"You can stand the gold treatment, no puns intended I assure you. It'll be hard on your kidneys but you're strong. I'll personally oversee it, take full responsibility."
"I'll have to tell Mother Mathilde."
Belle wondered if she was telling him so he could object, so he could fight for her the way she couldn't fight for herself.
"Why?" The world was a snarl.
"Obedience. I must."
"They'll send you home if you do." He sounded less taunting, like usual, and more desperate. Unable to remain standing Belle sat down heavily on a nearby stool. She couldn't push aside the notion that she was going to have to go home anymore and to admit it was too painful.
"I know."
It had been years since she'd last cried but and though she'd wished they were silent, private tears she had to settle for choking sobs impossible to hide. She was acutely aware of the presence of Dr Gold a few feet from her, leaning heavily on his cane like he didn't do usually.
"You're afraid you won't be able to stand the convent if they send you back."
It wasn't an accusation or a jab at her expense but a flat fact, as if it was normal that he knew her so well he could see deep inside her where no one else could.
"I'm going to tell you something about yourself, sister." He said the last word like it was a curse. "You're not meant to be shut away, to be kept indoors. You're a flicker of light... a flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness. You're meant to be with patients, to be with people, to see the world. Otherwise you'll slowly suffocate and die." He was reading her like she was an open book, seeming to know her more than she knew herself.
"I can help you stay if you wish, but it'll only be a temporary solution."
She should tell him no, should do the right thing for once and deny herself in order to keep her vows.
"I want to stay."
"Leave it to me, then."
She never knew quite what he said to Mother Superior or in what way but in the blink of an eye Belle found herself set up inside a pavilion, small and humble and near enough to the hospital with Lunga keeping an eye on her. Though modest the bed there had the best mattress she'd ever rested on and the harshness of the medicine was tempered by all the fruit and vegetables the people nearby brought her on a daily basis. She woke up each day to see the sunrise without having to worry about morning prayers or the accusing eyes of some fellow nun as she daydreamed. Gold provided her with new books almost daily.
He visited her every morning, preparing some concoction with raw eggs, some sort of liqueur and herbs, and forced it down her throat with a bit too much glee. It had been strange, at first, to be in his presence with only her nightgown and a flimsy linen coif hiding her hair, but quickly enough she grew used to it. After force-feeding her he enquired after her reading and checked out her vitals, sometimes her lungs and heart too. He took his breakfast with her too, saying he wanted to make sure she was eating well.
He sauntered in sometime in the evening, pretending that climbing the steep stairs wasn't hell on his leg, and over dinner he'd tell her about his day, about screaming to some nurse or cursing another and she'd chide him and offer an alternative solution to his problem that didn't involve him making people cry.
Sometimes he brought a bottle of wine with him, insisting that a glass or two would do her good. He'd end up drinking most of it and, though not inebriated, his defences would certainly lower and he'd find himself sharing more of his past than he had ever before. He told her, for the first time, that he'd been married before the war and had come home to find he had a son. He told her about the nightmares he had right after being discharged, the tension and how he used to flinch at any sound.
"It ate away at Millie's patience. The man who came back from the war, she said, wasn't the man she married. She met some sailor at a pub at some point and left with him, leaving me to raise my wee Bae. That's what I never forgave her for."
At the beginning of his visits he'd always sat on a chair a bit away from the bed. Now he sat closer and Belle had no strength left in her to find fault with any of it anymore.
"And then? Do you still know where she is?"
"There was some sort of sailing accident. She drowned. Bae felt guilty for not crying, but he hardly remembered her."
When the chair grew too uncomfortable Gold took to sitting on the floor beside the bed, his bad leg stretched out. It was a few days after he started doing it that he told her about Bae in depth, after having a bit too much to drink and perhaps getting a bit too comfortable. His voice was warm and sweet as he described him, wee and scrawny and terribly brave.
"And so good. He wanted to do such good in the world, to change it for the better. He wanted to be a doctor like his papa and go to places in need, poor places, and provide free care. When he learned about Africa in school he was adamant to one day become a doctor and come here." There was a pause and Belle knew what was coming before he said it. "When he was fourteen there was an accident. He was coming home from school when he was hit by a car. They told me he rushed onto the street to push a kid out of the way, the youngest son of the couple next door. Bae had promised his mother to take good care of him on the way to and from school. He was so proud that he was old and could have responsibilities."
Though his face was shielded by his shaggy hair Belle knew he was crying, however silently. Feeling more of her slip away from the clutches of religious life she took one of his hands in both of hers and kissed it fervently.
"You came here in his place. You fulfilled his wish."
"It was all I had left of him."
When he turned towards her it was natural to embrace him, to pet his hair and kiss his forehead. Providing comfort to a soul in pain, surely, could not be against her vows, could not be a sin.
She was still thinking about that hug, about the feel of Gold's hair beneath her fingertips and the solid weight of him against her breast when he burst into her little pavilion one afternoon looking ready to murder someone.
"Fucking Reverend Mother."
The words alone had her crossing herself as she watched him pace the small room like a caged animal. He was muttering something to himself, clutching a half-empty bottle of what she guessed was quite expensive whiskey, the same one he'd likely bribed Father Andre with.
"You mustn't say such things about her. About anyone, actually."
He turned towards her then, as if he had just noticed her, and Belle stifled the urge to flinch away from him. He looked ready to kill somebody.
"You might want to reconsider, dearie, after you hear what I have to say."
Mercifully he had the good sense to put the bottle down on the nearby table before pacing again. He looked unsteady enough to drop it otherwise. She hissed when his ankle hit the back of the only chair before he threw it to the corner of the room before lowering himself to the floor to clutch at his aching limb. Belle hesitated, thinking about stumbling out of bed to help her, considering her much improved condition, when he spoke.
"They're taking you away from me. After all... after everything, they're taking you away. Back to Belgium."
The sudden flair of panic froze her in place for a second, her mind trying to work out how and why. Had the Reverend Mother somehow gotten wind of Dr Gold's long visits? Did she suspect something untoward? Was she perhaps aware of how Belle's loyalties had shifted, how much she had strayed from the path of obedience and discipline? Was it a punishment or an attempt to save her?
"What's happened?"
The smile he gave her was feral, all teeth and no pleasantness.
"Some hire-up bureaucrat of more standing than brains, of course, has contracted some sort of tropical fever that's left him addled. Apparently you're the only one amongst the sisters qualified enough to care for him on the trip home. Any other wife of Christ around here is apparently likely to let him die by mistake... or kill him with incompetence. Sadly that part is all too true."
Her chest started hurting and though she felt guilty about it she wished it was TB and not the idea of living that made her feel so.
"But... I'm still convalescent myself. Surely it has slipped Mother Mathilde's mind..."
He shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair.
"You've been healthy for a while. The Reverend Mother has suspected it for quite some time but I pushed for a lengthier convalescence, told her it was to prevent a relapse. It is the truth, in a way... You were likely to jump into work the moment you were given a clean bill of health and that could have been dangerous. But I also... I wanted to keep you here. Here with me, if only for a little while more."
Belle had to admit, if only to herself, that she had suspected it, if not outright known it. But the pavilion was such a nice place, and she felt so free and enjoyed her books and Dr Gold's visits so much, that she hadn't questioned it, had let it slide quite happily.
One more transgression to add to the list and to take with her to the Mother House.
"You will have to make do with one of the other sisters till they send someone to replace me. I'm sure they'll find someone suitably qualified and in a few months you'll have forgotten all about me."
Her words meant to be soothing, however much they weren't for her. The doctor, however, reacted almost as if she'd slapped him, recoiling a bit from her and staring at her half-shocked and half-affronted.
"You can't possibly believe that. You're not that obtuse, surely. You're just trying to justify giving up so easily, not fighting to stay, to make a decision once and for all."
He was getting far too personal and too close to an open wound for her taste. Her own anger flared up, no matter how much she'd been told not to get emotional, to be even-tempered, always calm.
"You think this is easy for me? I've told you I don't want to leave, over and over. If it was up to me... But it isn't and there's nothing I can do about it."
"Like hell there isn't." She'd seen Dr Gold's rage a great many times, but never before the full extent of it aimed at her. "You could choose to stay. Choose to disobey, to finally stop fucking pretending to be a nun, to be someone other than yourself. You're not cut out for religious live. You're disobedient, undisciplined, starved for independence. Curious and reckless, with a wish for adventure and recognition. You thrive in your interaction with people, in tending to their needs, in helping them. You're stifling yourself, hiding yourself, denying yourself."
His voice went from furious to something else, something equally passionate but significantly different. He awkwardly lowered himself to his knees beside her bed, forcing her to look at him in the eye.
"You could be so much, if you stopped fighting your nature. You're warm." He lifted one of her hands and kissed her palm. "You're affectionate." He raised her other hand to his lips and repeated the gesture. "You're passionate." The kiss this time was delivered to the underside of her wrist, where surely Gold could feel the quick fluttering of her pulse against his lips. It takes a few seconds for Belle to realize she's stopped breathing.
"Why are you doing this? Why are you telling me this?" Did he hate her so much that he wanted her to suffer so? Didn't he realize how much he was hurting her?
"You know it. You must know it. You want me to spill it out? Would that please you?" He sneered, but there was no real malice behind it. He was scared and lashing out. A desperate soul. "Everything I love gets taken away from me. I don't want that anymore. Let me show you..."
He was mumbling now, clutching at her.
"Show me what?"
Belle had been kissed before, once. One of her friend's brothers had cornered her in the garden during a part and asked for a kiss. He hadn't demanded and she could've said no but she was curious about how it would feel, if kissing really was like her mother had described. It hadn't, not at all. It'd been dry and bland, though not unpleasant, and Belle couldn't have imagined herself wanting a second kiss.
She'd been wrong. Gold's kiss was nothing like that other one. Desperation made him rough, slanting his lips across her almost forcefully but far from repulsing her it enchanted her. That was Gold at his most raw, grasping her close as if he was terrified of putting any distance between them, coaxing her lips open with a patience that belied his tense state. She kissed him back clumsily, trying to mimic what he was doing. It was more than kissing, more than trapping his lower lip between both of hers and tugging on it, or curling her hands around his shoulders to keep him close. It travelled all over her body, making warmth pool low on her belly, giving her an urge to squirm, as if her body was asking for something. It brought stark relief too, to let go, to press herself closer to the Scotsman and feel like she was finally home.
"Let me show you..." It took her a while to notice he'd begun talking again, his words muffled by her mouth. "Stay with me. Be with me."
One of his hands went to her coif, his shaking fingers somehow untying the laces of the garment and swiftly yanking it off her head. Belle had cut her hair when she'd taken the habit, but since then it had grown back, safely hidden at all times. She took care to comb it and braid it but had never dared to think too much about it, lest she commit the sin of vanity. But Gold sunk his fingers into it with such relish one would think he was touching spun gold, brushed it out with the utmost care.
"I've wanted to touch your hair ever since I first met you."
He whispered the words against the skin of her left cheek, his lips trailing kisses upwards, towards the shell of her ear. Vaguely, as if it had happened in another lifetime, Belle recalled their first meeting. He'd been gruff, snarky and dismissive and had given no indication he saw her as a woman at all, much less one that interested him. As much insight as she had into the mind of Dr Gold she had always known there was a world of things she was unaware of. This only served as a stark reminder.
Her inner musings stuttered to a stop when his hand ghosted over the lacings of her high-necked nightgown. She moved restlessly against him, unsure if she wanted to stop him or urge him onward. As if sensing her indecision his hand dropped the lacings, his palm pressing against her back to gather her even closer to him. With his other hand he pulled off the covers, hovering for a split second before slowly but firmly touching her outer thigh through her clothing. He didn't attempt any more advances, seemingly content with pressing his lips against every bit of her face he could reach before going back to her mouth. Though his tense muscles and the strength with which he was crushing her to him spoke of the passion he wished to acquaint her with everything else felt unhurried, patient. Little by little, almost against her wish, Belle began to relax, reaching out to tentatively touch his neck. He had a penchant for shirts with rather open necklines due to the heat and she'd spent many a night on her knees trying punishing herself for letting her eyes stray there. It seemed that the more she knew Gold the more her thoughts were consumed by him. One thing in particular had always intrigued her and suddenly it seemed paramount that she know it. Feeling her limbs strangely laden she struggled to separate herself from him, managing to hold him at arm's length.
"What is your name?"
Kissing someone whose name she didn't know shouldn't really matter in a situation where there were much bigger obstacles in their way, but Belle needed to know it.
"Rumford. Rumford Elias Gold."
She waited for him to ask for her name in return. Ever since they'd met Gold had tried everything to learn it, from subtle manipulation to outright bribery. Though even remembering her former name was taboo as a nun he'd made sure to keep it in her mind constantly, making it impossible for her to achieve the complete detachment that was central to her religious life. But he didn't say a word, didn't even approach her again. He was just staring at her, his gaze equal parts desperation and awe and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she could order him out of the pavilion and to never speak to her again and he'd do it. She could still turn back and do the right thing, the obedient thing. Her fate was hers to decide and no one else's.
When she reached out, curling her right hand on the back of his neck and gently pulling him forward to rest his forehead against hers she felt completely, utterly free.
"I'm Belle."
He whispered her name once, twice, sounding it out as if it was the first time he'd ever heard it. When he gathered her to him she sunk gladly into his embrace, as scared as the first time he'd kissed her but in a whole, new way. She tried to reciprocate his kisses despite her awkwardness and when he gruffly told her to open her mouth for him she did so without thinking, clutching at the back of his shirt tightly when she felt the tip of his tongue brush against the back of her teeth. It almost but not quite muffled the feeling of his hand slipping beneath the nightgown to caress her bare calf, the back of her knee and then her inner thigh. The pads of his fingers were rough, creating a nice friction against her softer skin. When he finally cupper her sex she thought she would cry. She rocked against it without meaning to, squeaking when the contact sent sparks shooting from her lower belly to the rest of her. She'd never expected intimacy could be like that, that she had it in her to let go, to give so much of her to another to feel a connection like this.
"Just like that, sweetheart, just so."
His voice was a croon, soothing and enflaming at the same time, and though she could feel him tremble beside her, tense and struggling to remain in control, he guided her carefully with his hands and his mouth, with the scrape of his teeth against her neck and the press of his fingers against that part of her that not even her fingers had explored. She'd thought she wasn't missing out on much, that the vow of obedience and discipline were harder to keep than that of chastity but she knew now she'd never been more wrong.
"Let go, Belle, I've got you. I've got you."
For one unbearable moment she was caught on the verge of something wonderful that remained just out of her reach, the uncertainty almost physically painful. She felt his other hand on her breast, then, the pad of his thumb pressing against her pebbled nipple and the next moment the knot inside her belly dissolved and it was as if every feeling she'd repressed over the past years flared to the surface, pushing against her skin to be set free. She shook and cried and through it all Rumford was holding her, petting her hair and drying her tears as he told her how beautiful she was, how he adored her.
She was surprised when her exhilaration gave way to a sudden lethargy, her eyelids drooping as she sagged against the warm body holding her.
"Tomorrow I'll send one of the sisters to discharge you. If you want me to help you stay go straight to the hospital instead of the convent and we'll figure out a way, Belle, I promise. All you have to do is come to the hospital, just that."
He kissed her one last time, soft and wet and new, and tucked her gently into bed. It was a quiet, peaceful night and though her body had never felt heavier sleep didn't come. Belle thought about things she'd tried hard to forget. About her mother and her childhood tales of the nuns, about her father and the sense of adventure he'd passed on to her. About her faith, her vows, the Belle she knew and the one she'd never explored. About her doubts, and her many failings, and the imperfections that she didn't want to correct, that she wanted to keep and even to see flourish. About God and how best to serve him, to love him.
In the end what she needed to do was all too clear.
If Sister William noticed the bags under her eyes or her inner struggle she made no mention of it, helping her into her habit and down the stairs of her little pavilion. She didn't make a comment when she hurried her towards the convent, nor when her announcement that she would leave later that afternoon was met with stark, naked relief.
And though she thought she could see suspicion in Mother Emmanuel's eyes when she welcomed her back to the Mother House after a rather bumpy journey by sea she didn't speak of it either, and though nothing seemed to have changed in the convent in her long absence when she retired to her little cell at the end of the day she could find in it none of the comfort that had been there before.
Mother Emmanuelle never quite said it out loud but Belle knew she was aware that something was different about her. She herself could see it whenever she passed a reflective surface, though she knew she was not supposed to look at herself. There was a certain look in her eyes that seemed to hint at what had happened in the pavilion. It was ever-present in her mind as well, even when she was on her knees praying for clarity, for guidance.
In the weeks following her return Belle felt like she was waiting for something, something that would make things clear. She prayed, often and fervently, for a sign of some kind and though she'd been waiting for some inner realization, an epiphany of sorts. But nothing of the sort happened and the first inkling that something was about to change didn't come from inside at all, but rather from the outside. Even as cloistered as the sisters were rumours of unrest across Europe reached them, slowly at first and increasing as the weeks passed. Belle grew used to stay attuned to pick up on every new titbit, going as far as volunteer at the convent's kitchen to squirrel away the newspapers that served as wrapper for fish, eggs and other goods delivered.
It didn't take long for Belle to grow convinced that war was imminent. And that horrifying certainty, forced her at long last to face herself for who she truly was. When war broke she'd remain inside, tasked with praying for the welfare of people. Mother Emmanuelle would want her inside the convent at all times, conscious of Belle's struggle with her obedience. She'd see it as the perfect moment to strengthen her commitment to religious life and Belle would hate her for it, would wilt away wishing she could be outside helping people, being brave.
Asking for a dispensation was frightfully easy, when it came to it. Belle felt no remorse, no doubt, no sadness. Mother Emmanuelle's pleas didn't move her or make her waver and her heart didn't lurch with uncertainty or regret at any point. Not even the slightly accusatory looks of her fellow sisters deterred him and when she had to abandon her habit and don the clothes she'd entered the convent with she felt nothing but rightness.
Her Uncle Lumiere was nothing but supportive in the days that followed. He didn't quite say it, not in so many words, but she could tell he was happy that she'd renounced her vows. Instead he made sure to help her adapt to civilian life again, providing her with a complete new wardrobe and accompanying her to England when she mentioned she was going to enlist in the Civil Nursing Reserve. She dove into her training with a passion, learning emergency surgery procedures and preparing herself as best she could for the grim work that was sure to fill her days once war broke out. Some of her fellow nurses were experienced like herself. Others were newbies, women who'd volunteered after the Emergency Nursing Committee had started recruiting with a passion soon after Hitler annexed Austria in 1937. Both groups, far from finding themselves at odds, worked seamlessly. The newcomers were eager to learn and soon discovered doctors weren't very forthcoming with knowledge and the more experienced nurses were more than happy to share their hard-earned wisdom, assuming a mentoring role that boosted their morale.
For the first time in her life, and under the worst of circumstances, Belle found herself to be where she truly belonged. She found herself making fast and lasting friendships, willingly sharing her free time with others instead of treasuring it for herself. She studied in the mornings, worked at a hospital in the afternoons- the London, most of the time- and even though she was exhausted at the end of her shift she usually made time to have a drink with the girls.
When the war came their tight-knit group was forced to separate. Some nurses went to short-staffed hospitals, others went to the make-shift hospitals that were quickly set up all over England, and some chose and were chosen to go to the front, usually the more experienced nurses, with more aplomb than the others. In spite of her credentials, or rather because of them, Belle was retained in London, helping with some of the worst cases and handling the now limited nursing staff and, later on, the helpful but problematic VAD nurses.
Some nights, as she fell exhausted into bed hoping to catch a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, she remembered the convent, though it was as if she was recalling someone else's life. In retrospective, with a lot of time and a lot of living between her and Sister Benjamin, she realized she'd never been happy as a nun. She'd mistakenly thought that since she'd never wanted to get married and have children, to be a mother and a wife, it meant that she'd be happy as a nun. It seemed silly now, being in her late twenties, unmarried and yet filled with more purpose, more sense of self and fulfilment than she'd ever dreamed of experiencing.
Those nights she found sleep easily, feeling warm from the notion she'd made the right decision for herself in the end and knowing she was were the Lord had meant her to be all along. Other times memories of the convent conjured up faces other than that of her fellow sisters or Mother Emmanuelle. She'd remember his voice first, gruff and raspy, sometimes amused and sometimes irritated. She'd remember his larger-than-life personality next, his quirks and his surprising vulnerabilities. She'd recall with startling clarity the feel of his fingers on her, of being embraced by him, loved by him. Those nights sleep would elude her, and her fellow nurses would take one look at her the next morning and nod sagely, as if they knew exactly what affected her. They called it being "heartsick" and it was as common amongst nurses as the flu. They were all, after all, far from home and away from their sweethearts if they had them, unsure if they'd see them again.
Belle never told in detail about Gold but she spoke about him, about "Rum". It was inevitable, when the workload eased as it happened from time to time and she was invited to share a bottle or two of wine amongst her friends. Everyone shared at least one love story of their own, some sweet and tragic, others hopeful and enduring and some even rather scandalous. Everyone had assumed, at first, that Belle's past as a nun meant she had no tale to share but a bit of bravery and a lot of muscatel had led her to confess her little secret, though by no means all the sordid little details. It felt wonderful, to have it out in the open, to be able to commiserate about it with a group of supportive women who all had their one tale of woe to contribute with.
She decided, after one of those long talks, that she'd write to Dr Gold after the war was over. She'd left the nunnery for herself, for her own sense of self, but the pull she felt towards Gold was a part of herself. She'd felt more alive in his presence than ever before and though her job was rewarding and her life was better now than it had ever been, it felt somehow incomplete. It was a new leap of faith, one that she felt she would be prepared to take when the time came.
She grew quite a reputation over time for her nursing abilities. She was fought over quite a lot, re-assigned according to the whim and needs of the time so when she was told she had been selected to work with a brilliant surgeon developing new procedures for amputation that guaranteed a higher survival rate in spite of the amputation not taking place within six hours of the patient being injured. Even though it was a busy day when she was pulled aside to be told of her new assignment time seemed to slow for a bit when Belle looked at the paperwork and spotted the name of the doctor in question. There couldn't be two Rumford Elias Gold prancing around with medical degrees after all, and it made sense that a surgeon of his experience and skill would lends his services to the war effort.
The rest of her shift passed in a blur. Her body knew well the routine of the day and went through the motions with little trouble but even so it was a relief when her shift ended and she went home. Her first instinct was to say a prayer of gratitude because he was safe and sound. She hadn't allowed herself to think about the possibility that he might be dead but know that she knew it wasn't the case she allowed herself to purge that fear from her mind completely. And a new hope began to blossom inside her: surely it was a great coincidence to be reunited with Gold thus in spite of all the odds. This had to mean more, had to be God's work. A sign, she thought. A sign she'd made the right decision. A sign that she should pursue the happiness she'd found in Gold's arms that night.
She'd dressed herself with care to meet him again, ironing her best uniform and taking pains to curl her hair prettily. In the end, however, it had been all for naught, since she arrived at the hospital only to have to scrub in for an emergency procedure. She hid her curls beneath a white cap, donned the appropriate clothing and was almost shoved unceremoniously into an operating room, where a slightly older-looking Gold was yelling at a trembling nurse. It was a frightfully familiar image and though Belle felt pity for the seasoned nurse who was ordered out of the room she couldn't help the giddiness she felt when she took her place at Gold's right side.
He was harsh and abrasive at the beginning but as soon as he realized she could understand his mangled English and almost anticipate his requests he calmed down a bit, focusing all his attention instead on his patient. He was young and was already missing a hand when Belle had arrived. Though the other one looked at first like it wouldn't be possible to save some extra work, and a great deal of ingenuity on the part of the doctor, proved her wrong. She could see he'd picked up new tricks since she'd last seen him but his demeanour seemed rather unchanged.
When the operation was finally over Belle followed him out, though the rest of the nurses chose to leave in the opposite direction. Dr Whale, who Belle had been assigned to before and who'd witnessed parts of the operation, was waiting to discuss the procedure with Gold, apparently impressed with his skill.
"Well, at least they've given me a competent nurse at long last. Miss French, isn't it?"
He turned towards her just as she was disposing of her surgical mask and the cap on her hair. For a second or so he blinked, as if attempting to clear his vision. Whale chattered on beside him, too distracted to notice when the other doctor tensed up of leaned more heavily on his cane, grasping its handle tightly. A moment later Belle felt his eyes travel down her form, taking in her nurse's uniform, her low-heeled shoes, practical but far from what she'd worn at the convent, and her unbound hair, the glint of two simply pearl studs visible in the harsh light of the hospital hallway. She opened and closed her mouth several times, wondering what would be appropriate to say in front of Whale, what could possibly convey even half the things she wanted to say to him. But before she could make up her mind she watched him close off, his face going blank and his posture relaxing.
"Well, Miss French, you'll do, I suppose. I suggest you make your rounds before I have need of you again. Run along now, dearie."
His dismissal stung but Belle had reasoned it'd been a reaction to his surprise at finding there- and attired thus- and the presence of Dr Whale, which prevented any sort of meaningful exchange. It was how she excused his strange aloofness when she met him again a few hours later, once more accompanied by Whale and a new doctor Belle wasn't familiar with. But though it seemed understandable, even predictable, that it would take some time before she could be with Gold alone to have a good talk, after a few busy days turned into weeks she had to admit to herself that Gold was avoiding her. A man with a limp and a foul temper should be easy to track down even on a busy hospital but Gold was, for all intents and purposes, like a ghost. He appeared by her side only when there were other people present and made himself scarce whenever it seemed they might get a moment alone.
She'd tried at first to corner him somehow, confused and a bit angry at being so unceremoniously ignored, but all her attempts had been in vain. And once the ebb and flow of the war turned once more, calm, quiet days giving way to a frenzy of activity and more patients that they knew what to do with, she resigned herself to stop pursuing him.
It was frightfully easy, once she'd made that decision, to fall back into a familiar routine with him. If not for the way he refused to acknowledge her personal life, like he'd been prone to do when they'd first met, she'd have thought nothing had changed for them since they'd last worked together. They did good work together, amazing in some cases, and that certainty carried her through the day, made the situation somewhat bearable.
So immersed was she in their routine that it didn't occur to her to deviate from it when, after a particularly long and strenuous procedure, she walked into a nearby lounge to find Dr Gold curled up on couch, fingernails digging into his right leg as if it would stave off the pain. It was almost an automatic response to fetch some cold water and some towels and dig through the nearest medicine cupboard for some cream to help with the swelling and the pain. He must have been in agony since he didn't fight her when she rolled up his pant leg, took off his right sock and shoe and applied the towels first and then the ointment. The scar tissue felt smooth beneath her fingertips, a familiar sensation that, for some reason, made her want to cry.
"Have you left the convent for good?"
His question caught her by surprise, titling her head up so he could look at him. He gave nothing away, his face like stone as he regarded her. There was something almost... predatory about him, his stillness making her feel like he was about to pounce on her if she said the wrong thing.
"Yes. Three years ago, actually. Before the war started."
He said nothing for a long time after that, and Belle allowed him time to process things.
"So, in the end, you left for nothing."
She tried not to let him see the way her hands shook as she continued to tend to him. This was, she knew, a pivotal moment. What she said and how she said it would make or break whatever hope there was of some future together, if that was still a possibility.
"No. I needed to be away from you. This... decision, this monumental choice I had to make, had to be all about me. I couldn't risk being influenced, or thinking I had made my decision for the wrong reasons. I needed to know me, know who I was and where I belonged. The war... was an ultimatum. It made things clear, it made me realize a lot about myself. And I'm happy. My life makes me happy, my work, my friends, my independence... This is where I am supposed to be. And everything that happened before... well, that was the journey I had to make. Do you... do you see?"
He grunted when she pressed too hard against a spot on his ankle that was especially tender.
"You shouldn't be doing this." She expected him to push her away after that but he made no move to do so. "Other doctors want to work with you, you shouldn't tie yourself to me. They'll shun you after a while, in the fear I'll come after them."
One of his hands grasped the edge of her skirt and held on, fast. He was telling her to go away and yet that miniscule gesture said otherwise.
"I don't mind what they'll say. I was happy with my work before you came but I must admit I am happier with it now that I get to help you. You make it... more." Belle felt like she was in the middle of some great realization. "You make me... more. So I'll stay with you for as long as you want me."
"Are you sure? It's forever, dearie."
Something about the tone of his voice or the way he was looking at her, with such intensity, told her they weren't talking about the hospital anymore. With every bit of bravery she'd gained over the past three years she took his hand, lacing their fingers together. She remembered how Ariel, one of her fellow nurses, had told her that when she'd first held hands with her beau, Eric, she'd felt her heartbeat quicken. Belle didn't have to check her own pulse to know her heart was beating a vibrant staccato.
"I know. I want that too."
His smile was small but genuine and Belle basked in it before he raised their joined hands to kiss the back of hers slowly, reverently. He seemed tired and relieved and she felt the sudden need to wrap her arms around him and never let go.
"Stay with me, Belle."
She remembered him uttering those words before, drunk and clinging to her. Now, however, Belle was free to answer him.
"Always."