I have officially have already been flattered by you all! Thank you very much for the kind reviews, and here is your continuation as promised! I have also fixed Ch. 1, in which I had spelled "Sister EvangelinA's name wrong!" My apologies for that! Please enjoy, and I do hope this rendition has the same luster as the last!

-Hannanball13 (drown-out-the-crazies)Tumblr

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There is no doubt that there are surprises in Poplar, and midwifery itself. But, the word surprise, although meant to be taken in a positive way, also has a negative connotation.

In one moment, there could be a mother oozing with love for her newborn, the next a woman crying about an unwanted pregnancy.

There are healthy babies, sick ones, and stillbirths. In the East End, all of these things occurred often, but every time, the midwife, the mother, the father, and the community, would be overcome with emotion, ranging from happiness to melancholy. As midwives, we were thrust into the grittiness, the scariness, and the excitement of it all. We were a part of the loving families, the miserable ones, the happy mums and dads, and the fearful ones.

Shoved into the middle of the realness of every relationship, and assistants to the givers of life, we saw more than one could imagine. Good, bad or ugly, there was always another baby. Wanted or unwanted, there was always another baby. Scorned, or loved, there was always another baby. We got to know what a loving mother was, what an unloving mother was, and an uncaring mother was, and depending upon how often we saw these women, we may even know whilst there pregnancy whether they were ready for late night feedings, crying, and neediness. Although not all mothers in Poplar were, there was definitely a mothering type. Said types took surprises with grace, and carefulness as they would with plans, they were never obvious with their discomfort in sticky situations, and took pride in whatever their children accomplished, or even didn't accomplish.

What we didn't expect was amongst us all, that we'd not only see our Chummy become one of these women, but another one of our fellow nurses as well. We had no doubts about either of them. Yes, we thought that out of us all, it was Shelagh, and Chummy that were truly the mothering types, and we were always glad to see our family grow.

But, as we have all witnessed, not everyone likes surprises.

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Patrick had been staring into the fire, swirling the gin in his glass with welcomed boredom, as the dark circles underneath his eyes made it obvious he was gearing down after a busy day, a fag hung from between his lips, smoking profusely, but all of it seemed to rise above their heads, never bothering his wife. A short while after Shelagh and Chummy had finished their chat, Chummy carried Freddie off to bed, and Shelagh took to waiting for Patrick.

He arrived within the hour, but rain had begun to fall, and the sound against the high roof of Nonnatus House indicated that it was a forceful downpour. He entered, soaking wet up to his shins from a nasty puddle at the bottom of the entranceway steps, growling underneath his breath, and Timothy beside him, quite pleased with how damp he had become. While Nonnatus House remained quiet, and Shelagh could hear no more of Chummy and Little Fred, they warmed by the fire while all three of them awaited the precipitation to cease. Peter could be heard grumbling down the corridor as he made his way in, but did not stop to say, "hello" for he hadn't heard or seen their presence in the scurry to the small quarters he and his small family shared there still. Patrick and Shelagh were whispering back and forth, for Tim had curled up in a chair, asleep. Doctor Turner stroked her cheek with his dripping fingertips to see a smile out of his unusually pensive wife. He feared she was angry with him for being so late, but he couldn't have been more incorrect.

The falling drops slowed down considerably, and with his son slung over his shoulder, still soundly snoozing, and Shelagh's hand in his, they ventured to the car, and then drove home. Timothy had been instructed in his sleepy haze to strip of his damp clothing, get into his night garments, and settle down for the evening. After Shelagh had combed through her hair, and washed herself, the two found their way to their own living room, where Shelagh had given him his glass of gin. She herself didn't enjoy the taste, so never joined him in the ritual. Tonight, her nausea had a late start, and the grumbling of her insides was violent at the exact moment she wished it wouldn't be. He was observing her, in the wonderful doctoral way he had a million times before.

This time, instead of lingering glances they shared a mutual confusion. Shelagh was dashing off to the washroom, while Patrick scurried off behind her, gin tossed onto the end table. He hadn't ever seen a sight like this, at least not his Shelagh overcome with such demons. The retching was immense, and the awful way which she breathed through the bouts of sickness made him ill himself. He felt terrible for he could only watch as a spectator in her misery.

Shelagh felt the coolness of the porcelain on her hot cheeks, and the worried stare of Patrick. She hadn't told him of the mess her stomach had been, and the wringing her intestines were experiencing, and hadn't had to, because he had usually been away during these episodes. His flashing brown eyes dug into her like scalpels burrowing deep into her skin, and suspicion grew from his very expression, "What has come over you, love?" His long fingers and large palm touched to her head in the similar way it had only one time before, "You don't feel feverish…"

Innocence shown through in his inflection, and she couldn't help but giggle. He assisted her to her feet, looking quizzical of her as he wet a towel and cleaned her lips. She smiled at the gesture, but gently pushed his hands away.

"I hope it doesn't cause you too much worry," she stated, "but it may be happening for a couple more weeks." She fiddled with her hands as she looked to her feet, overcome with debilitating fright as she awaited his response.

But, he wasn't as quick as he once was, and usually is when not near exhaustion. "What do you mean? Has something gone awry you haven't told me?" he wondered, coming closer the tiniest tad.

"It's no cause for concern," she assured, feeling his hot breath on her face, her illness still a secret. "It's permanent, but will be wonderful, I promise that." She still did not look at him. Now, in the intensity of the silence she inhaled raggedly, attempting to push away tears threatening to fall down her cheeks.

"Don't cry," he insisted wiping a stray tear from just underneath her eye, as she quickly lost control. "We didn't have much of a honeymoon period, but we were much too busy for one anyway. We will find a way to juggle it all."

His reply was like gravel scraping against a chalkboard, he was indifferent, and she found herself hurting from the inside out, "Patrick, do you not—

"Shhhh," he interjected, "don't go putting words in my mouth, now." He flicked a lock of her hair, "If you're happy, I'm happy."

The rivers were flowing, and now the salty waters were cascading down her face, rolling off of her chin, and soaking into the collar of her night clothes. "I am very happy," she quivered, "very happy indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be going off to bed."

She slid past him, reaching the door before he said,"Well, I'll join you."

"Don't bother," she whispered, "you haven't finished your gin yet."

It was a still night, she realized as she lay there staring at the wall. She'd only wished she had someone else to talk to, Cynthia, Jenny Lee, Trixie even, but of all, Chummy. Chummy was always so correct and uninhibited by seemingly insurmountable obstacles like these when given time. Her battle with the bicycle goes to show that, her adamancy about Peter toward her mother goes to show for that as well… there were many examples of her high-standing persistence. Shelagh longed for an intuition, rather than these tears she was shedding, and she knew Chummy was well endowed with one, and would, without a doubt, console her the best.

Off in her mind, submerged in deep, self-consciousness and upsetting knowledge of midwifery and unwanted babies, she hadn't a clue the volume of the shudders she had begun to let out. The walls were paper thin in their home, and Tim's room was just one room over, a fact Shelagh had wished she would have remembered when excusing herself to the bedroom as early as it was.

His tiny feet padded along the hallway soundlessly, and it was only the door which warned her of his impending presence, and stealthy observations. She wiped at her face with her sleeves, replacing her glasses upon her nose, and sat up.

He was slow to come closer, finding Shelagh less approachable lately, although she had remained the same lady she was, except for wearing the wrong clothes as he had made ever so clear. Timothy had been most fascinated by her hair, the color, the length, for he had never gotten to see it without the Habit. But, that had died down, and he had become a little shyer around her, while troubling over what he could call her, sometimes stumbling upon the name, "Sister Bernadette," to find they it was of no meaning anymore.

His eyes were on her now, examining the tracks down her face, as well as the tear stains on the bed sheet. You could see the over-curiousness clouding around him, ready to ask the question.

"Is something the matter, Tim?" she wondered in hopes he'd veer away from his own inquisition.

A floor board creaked underneath him as he climbed to the corner of the bed, his knees to his chin, facing Shelagh with intent to fix whatever need fixing, "Nothing is the matter with me," he heartened. "But, is there something the matter with you?"

His boyish features looked utterly concerned, and Shelagh paused for a moment to consider her response, for she felt she must handle this ever so carefully. "No, Tim. Everything is alright," she fibbed, "just a very long day, is all."

"But, I thought you had the day off today, Dad said you watched Baby Fred." He countered intelligently, "You like babies. How did Freddie make you upset?" he wiggled a bit before situating himself again.

Shelagh smirked weakly, "It wasn't the baby who has made me upset." This time she meant to be honest, but would have liked to keep it to herself who had caused the sadness to spill onto her cheeks.

Timothy grew very serious, hopping from his place, and tiptoeing to her side, he whispered, "Was it my father who has made you sad?" In his pronouncement he seemed indefinitely angry. Her cheeks grew hot as the boy grabbed one of her hands from her lap, trying to be so tender with her; he put his palm in hers.

"It was just a misunderstanding, Timothy, surely nothing to become all flustered over…" the woman smiled authentically, feeling the roughness of his young mitts.

"You are flustered; don't tell me you're not," he demanded knowingly.

"I'm just a little emotional right now; it's something that needn't any of your worry. I think it's time you get back to bed."

"But, Mum!" he stamped his foot, seemingly oblivious to his remark. It took a moment for Shelagh, a long one at that, while she held the boy tightly to her chest, not wanting to let go. He wrapped his arms around her as well, unsure of the reason for the sudden embrace, positioning his head on her shoulder, cheek pressed against her collarbone, he admitted, "I just wanted to make you feel better; I didn't mean to be a pain."

She felt the rush of droplets from the corners of each eye again, "You have made me feel better, Tim. Much, much better…" When they let go, he smiled brightly, and pecked her on the cheek.

"I'll just go to my room, then. You look tired," he mumbled, speaking for mostly himself, yawning, "Good night."

"Sweet Dreams, my dear Timmy, and thank you much."

xxx

She only received a night of tossing and turning after her conversation with her Stepson, but still she was somewhat chipper in her morning jaunt to Nonnatus House, sporting her nurse's uniform with a slightly content grin. Chummy had been flippantly strolling slowly, awaiting her friend's company. "What-ho, Shelagh! How are we feeling this morning?" Chummy explored carefully, looming over her fellow midwife beaming brightly for having such a late evening, and most likely getting less sleep than Shelagh.

"Oh, just having a slightly disheartening misunderstanding with Patrick that has occupied most of the space in my mind," she replied truthfully, "I don't feel I could be an asset to the ladies and children to Poplar today, purely based on my own turmoil."

Chummy frowned, touching her shoulder, "What could you possibly be arguing with Doctor over? Shouldn't he be absolutely over the moon at this moment?"

"'Over the moon' does not precisely describe his mindset currently, it's more impartiality than anything else," Shelagh grimaced, "it's not that he was angry or anything, it just wasn't the reaction which I was hoping for, perhaps my imagination got the best of me."

"Well, I am very sorry to hear that," she sympathized as they still were walking. "I'm sure he'll come around, they always do!" Chummy added optimistically.

"Of course," she responded, "It's all very far off now. He has a lot of time."

Chummy smiled again, "We're supposed to be partnered, today. Now that this has been projected to be a slow month, a few days a week we may be paired up with another. My wish is to avoid the wrathful association of Sister Evangelina," she raised her eyebrows emphatically, and foolishly.

"I'm sure Sister Julienne will be kind when determining the schedule," Shelagh reassured.

"I am frightfully sorry Patrick doesn't see everything the way he should…"

Shelagh sighed. She seemed to be doing that frequently these past few days. "it's quite fine, I suppose he is just one of many of us which do not enjoy surprises."

And with that, she and Chummy went on with their back and forth, as well as their banter, continuing to Nonnatus House to grab their instruments and begin their rounds.

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