a/n: ALL CHARACTERS AND EVERYTHING IN CALL THE MIDWIFE DOESN'T BELONG TO ME. I'M JUST BORROWING THEM FROM HEIDI THOMAS FOR A WHILE.

Shelagh had just slid the shepherd's pie into the oven when she heard the click of keys in the front door.

Timothy looked up from his homework. "Dad's home."

"He's early today," she said, a frown briefly creasing her brow. Patrick home early usually meant one of two things: He'd had an easy day and was able to escape the drudge of paperwork for an evening with his family; or he was only home for a quick bite to eat before he'd have to head out again. She hoped it was the former; he'd had a string of late evening calls recently. She took off her apron and went out to the hall to greet him.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait for dinner, I just put the shepherd's pie –" the words died on her lips as she saw her husband, and what he had with him. Or more precisely, who.

"We're home," he said, more to the wriggling blue bundle in his arms than to her.

Timothy came out of the kitchen. "Is that a baby? Dad, why'd you have a baby? You know you're not supposed to bring them home, right?"

Shelagh giggled, the spell of her surprise broken. Patrick let out an exasperated sigh.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't call ahead. It's only for a few days. Her parents – the father – she'll be adopted, they've started the process – but it's – it's not safe for her in that house tonight." His expression darkened for a moment in anger.

Shelagh stepped closer, caught a glimpse of the child's face and understood. She'd worked as a nurse and midwife in Poplar long enough to see many children born out of wedlock, several of those of mixed-race. Some were loved, like the young son of Ted and Winnie Lawson, but most were like the child nestled in Patrick's arms – seen as a mistake by one or both parents and abandoned.

"Why's she being adopted? Did they want her?" she heard Timothy ask behind her.

"Because –" she swallowed the lump in her throat and reached out to touch the baby's soft cheek. "Because they couldn't care for her, not the way she deserves. But some family – some very lucky family will."

"Carole," Patrick said. "Her mother named her Carole." He grinned goofily down at the child again, and Shelagh was struck by the joyful thought that this might be how he looked with their baby one day. Almost like this.

Timothy came to stand beside her. "Hello, Carole. Can I hold her?"

"Maybe later," Patrick said as the baby began to grizzle. "She's a bit fussy –" he frowned "—and wet, I think."

"Well, we'll have to see to that right away." Shelagh held out her arms and Patrick transferred the infant gently.

It had been a while since she'd held a newborn, not since Freddie's christening, and as the child's dark, sleepy gaze roamed her face, Shelagh felt such relief, and such a stab of longing for a child of her own. A child she would never have to let go.

"Hello little one," she whispered. "Let's see if we can't fix you up, shall we?"

"I stopped off at the clinic – there's nappies and formula in my bag," Patrick said, running a finger over the baby's fine dark hair.

"And I think I've got another blanket somewhere," Shelagh said, her eyes never leaving Carole's face. "Don't want her catching a chill."

Patrick picked up his bag and followed his wife down the hall to their room. You're a natural, he'd told her once. There weren't very many happy memories from the day of the TB screening, but that was a bright one, made brighter still by her love for Timothy, and the care on her face as she looked after a baby she'd only met five seconds ago. If they ever had another child – when they had another child – he or she would have the most lovely, the most wonderful mother.

"C'mon Tim," he said, leaving Shelagh to coo and fuss over Carole. "We'll see to dinner."