"You were right to send for me," Patrick said, concern lacing his voice as he turned to look at Sister Julienne. The older woman frowned, leaning against the wardrobe as he took out a syringe, measuring out a dose of antibiotics.
"I've never seen her like this," Sister Julienne commented. "The fever seems to have taken all of her senses." Her eyes flickered to the prone woman on the bed, watching the sweat bead on the girl's forehead as she thrashed about, Patrick holding her arm steady until he could inject the medication.
"Could you get me some cool water and a few cloths? I'm going to see if I can bring her fever down," the doctor explained, sitting on the edge of the bed once he used syringe was safely stored away. "I... I think it best if I take her cap off as well," he added, cringing internally at what Sister Julienne would think of such an outlandish suggestion.
"Of course, whatever needs to be done to restore her health. I'll be back in a moment." With that she swept from the room, leaving Patrick to carefully lift Sister Bernadette's head from her pillows and take her cap off, gently releasing her plait and moving it to lie against her neck. He sighed to himself, hating how his heart ached at the sight of her. Even pale and clammy he found her utterly beautiful, her glassy blue eyes blinking up at him, unseeing in the fog of her illness. She tried to sit up then, but Patrick caught her shoulders, holding her down with little force, watching the struggle flee from her body in seconds.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face, noticing how she pressed her cheek into his palm, seeking the cool temperature of his skin against her. He looked up, careful to make sure he appeared the consummate professional as Sister Julienne came back into the room, his hand returning to his lap despite the groan of dissatisfaction that escaped Sister Bernadette.
"I can do this if you have patients to see to Doctor," Sister Julienne offered, resting the basin of water on the nightstand.
"It's quite all right," he assured her, hearing the telephone ring in the distance. "Besides, I think your patients are a little more pressing than my district rounds for this afternoon." She gave him a wan smile before retreating back into the hall at the sound of her name being called by Trixie. Patrick took one of the towels from the basin, squeezing out the excess water before dabbing it across Sister Bernadette's hairline and down her neck, sighing when he saw her relax at the cool sensation of the fabric. He spent the next little while repeating the process, trying to control his faze every time he swept the cloth over her collarbones.
"Doctor," Sister Bernadette said suddenly, drawing his attention to her face. She muttered something that he didn't catch.
"I'm sorry Sister, I didn't hear you," he said, leaning closer, his eyes catching hers as she tracked his movements.
"I should like very much if you would stay here forever," she breathed, voice so quiet he nearly missed it again. What stunned him into silence, however, weren't her words, but rather her surging upwards, pressing her lops to his. He froze for a moment, heart pounding in his chest. He shouldn't be doing this; shouldn't be allowing her to act in such a way. She was sick; overcome with fever. He should pull away, ask Sister Monica Joan to take over the watch until someone else returned and could do it. Instead, he tilted his head, allowing her to continue with her unsure movements, gently shifting his lips against hers, his hand finding its way to her neck as he stroked along her jawbone with his thumb. When she tried to press further, opening her mouth and licking at the seam of his lips with her tongue he finally broke the kiss, jerking away from her. Sister Bernadette's eyes remained closed, her cheeks now flushed with more than just fever as she reached up with trembling fingers, touching her lips.
"You don't develop courage by being happy in your relationships everyday. You develop it by surviving difficult times and challenging adversity." Sister Monica Joan's commentary from the doorway felt like a punch to the stomach, his lungs seeming to seize in his chest. He couldn't help but wonder how much she had seen and, if her mental infirmity would somehow be a blessing for once, keeping her from exposing what she more than likely had witnessed.
"Sister –" he started, eyes widening as she laughed, dashing away before he could ask her anything. His attention instantly snapped back to the bed as Sister Bernadette released a pained groan, her hand pressing to her forehead.
"The room is spinning," she murmured. Patrick smiled sadly, reaching for the tablets on the nightstand, measuring the dosage.
"It's the fever," he said, helping her to sit up properly so that she could take the medication, chasing the pills with a few sips of water. He stayed with her until she fell asleep, not pressing to ask why she had kissed him, too busy letting the emotions the action invoked in him run rampant in his head. Sister Evangelina relieved him of his post just prior to lunch, sending him on his way with a pasty and assuring him she would call if the younger woman got any worse.
He didn't find out that Shelagh had no recollection of their first kiss until the next time she fell ill with a fever, nearly two years into their marriage. She blushed worse at the realisation than she had when she had acted so impulsively.