1 June 1958

In Sister Bernadette's memories, the Mother House was always a warm, happy place. Full of the laughter of children - and sometimes their tears, though such sorrow was always met with compassion - and the soft voices of the sisters who loved them, the Mother House burst with life. There were songs to be sung, prayers to be prayed, meals to be made. The work was never ceasing, in the Mother House; there were sisters there who managed the finances of the entire Order, who assisted with the distribution of donations, and the placement of their fellows throughout all of the Orders' houses. There were novices, bright and hopeful - though their number was smaller now than it had been when Sister Bernadette first came to this place with a heart full of dreams - and the mentors who taught them with patience and affection. There were older sisters, too, beyond the point of working for their cause but not beyond the point of care, tended reverently and gently by younger hands. The Mother House was a place of joy, in her memories.

But it seemed less so, now. Oh, on the whole it had not changed so very much; the work was the same, and the spirit of the women who undertook it was likewise as cheerful and full of devotion as it had ever been. Some of the faces were unfamiliar to her, but there were more old friends in that place than new acquaintances. It should have felt welcoming, and homey, and perhaps it would have done if Sister Bernadette had been sent there to work, to become a part of the vibrant fabric of life that wove through that place, but she had been sent to Chichester for an unusual purpose, and she was set aside on account of that purpose.

When she'd first arrived she had been whisked straight into a meeting with Mother Jesu Emmanuel. Her bag had been taken from her by a quiet, smiling stranger, and she had been entered Mother Jesu's office feeling small, and rather out of place. So much time had passed, since last she'd stood in this place, and it was thoughts of leaving the Order that had brought her back here; she had felt herself half a traitor already, though she still wore the habit and carried the name Bernadette. If Mother Jesu felt at all betrayed by her lack of faith she gave no sign, only treated her younger sister with kindness, as she always had done.

But Sister Bernadette had been shocked to learn that while she remained in Chichester she would essentially be kept in seclusion, the better to devote herself to prayer and communion with God.

This is not a punishment, Mother Jesu had told her gently when she protested. You are not in exile here. You are free to come and go as you wish, and to take your evening meal with us. However, you must not forget the purpose of your visit. You are here to seek guidance from the Almighty.

I had hoped to seek guidance from my sisters, as well, Sister Bernadette had told her. She didn't relish the thought of spending a month almost entirely alone, kneeling in the chapel or sitting in the austere room that had been set aside for her, with nothing but her Bible and her prayers for company. Perhaps that, more than anything, was a sign of just how far from her path she had drifted, that the presence of God was no longer enough to satisfy her. The very thought was almost blasphemous, and she hated herself for it.

A choice lies before you, Mother Jesu had told her. It is not my choice to make, nor is it truly yours. The Lord knows what path he has set aside for you. You must take this time to sit quietly, and listen for his counsel. I fear that were I to offer my own opinion, the voice of the Lord might be drowned out by my own. Take heart, sister. The Lord knows what he intends for you, and in time I believe you will learn his will.

And so Sister Bernadette was reduced to this, dividing her time between her room and the chapel, except for the hour each day she spent walking the grounds. The world shrunk in around her, and silence echoed in her ears. She had hoped that away from the clamor of Poplar, away from the never-ending demands of her patients, the noise of the docks, the thousand tasks that filled every moment, she might find peace and restoration. And yet she did not feel relaxed, or at ease; her hands itched for want of occupation, and her mind drifted often from her prayers, visiting memories of those she loved and wondering what lay in store for her future. Sister Bernadette did not feel as if she were approaching a revelation; she felt instead as if she were waiting for one to come to her, and she was less certain by the day that it was on its way.

With all her heart Sister Bernadette wished the choice before her was an easy one. It had been easy, to choose to move to London; both her parents were gone, she'd come into a modest inheritance, and there were more opportunities for her in London than in her provincial town. Nursing, too, had been an easy choice - there was a dire need for nurses, at that time, and the work was important, and it brought her joy and fulfillment. Even joining the Order had been an easy choice at the time; she had been lonesome and dissatisfied with her life, and the Order offered her peace, security, and the love of a community. At the time it had not seemed such a sacrifice, to abandon thoughts of marriage and power over her own destiny. Her faith was great, and the love of the Lord was vast and all-encompassing. The Order promised stability at a time when nothing was certain, and as for marriage...well, it wasn't as if there had been a line of suitors knocking on her door. She'd never been terribly comfortable around men, and they had not often sought her out, and it had been almost a relief, to set aside worries about how she might ever find love, and whether that love would sustain her in the future. She'd had no need of a husband, not when the Lord provided all, and she had been happy.

She had been happy. But she was no longer; she could not deny it. Of late the lack of freedom afforded her, the lack of control over her own direction, had become burdensome. And loneliness had crept into her heart, when she slid beneath the sheets of her little bed in Nonnatus House alone. Thoughts of him filled her mind in quiet moments, and her heart ached with longing for -

For what, exactly? For companionship, for affection, for a hand to hold, a soul to share her life with. He had come bursting into her life, and torn all her previous assumptions about herself to pieces. She had thought she would be content, never knowing the touch of a man, but now he had held her for the briefest of moments and set her mind to racing with thoughts of what it might feel like to share all of herself with another in that way, in the way she was never supposed to consider. She had grown to love his boy, and in spending time with Timothy she had found a hole in her heart, a longing for a child of her own that could not be sated while she remained so distant from the warmth of a family home. There was so much want in her now, where before there had been only satisfaction, and the want grew stronger by the day.

To join the religious life was to eschew all thoughts of want; oh, it was not that the wanting ceased, but that the Sisters chose their devotion, their duty, their God, over their own desires. There was beauty in the denial of the self, grace in the sacrifice of one's personal longings in the name of caring for others. It was a high calling, a noble calling, a difficult path to tread but one full of rewards. Every one of her sisters had known want, and every one of them had risen above it. Sister Bernadette wanted to draw comfort and strength from their example, did not want to be sullen and petulant and demand her own way like a willful child, but she felt so drawn to Doctor, felt such a connection to him, that she could not turn away from thoughts of him entirely.

A week had passed, since she'd come to the Mother House, but no certainty had come to her. At her wit's end, then, she sat down at the small table in the corner of her room, and laid out a piece of paper in front of her. Her prayers had not been answered, and Mother Jesu had offered no counsel, and so she felt she had no choice but to seek it out for herself.

Dear Doctor Turner, she wrote. She did not know his Christian name, and that grieved her; their fates were intertwined, now, and yet she could not call him by his name, nor could he call her by her own. There was so very much they did not know about one another, and that worried her, too; how could she consider turning aside from the Order for the sake of this man, when she did not even know his name?

I wish

She stopped. What did she wish? That he would come for her, like the hero in a film, storm through the doors and wrap her in his arms and in that display of reckless affection prove the depth of his regard for her, prove that their souls were meant to be joined, forever? Or that he had not proposed at all, that he had not kissed her, that they could have continued their dance of flirtation and retreat, longing and yet not giving voice to their base desires?

I wish I'd had the chance to speak to you before I left.

And she did wish it; if only she could have seen him, spoken to him in private, perhaps he would have been able to assure her that he did wish to marry her, that he had not rushed into his proposal only out of a desire to protect her reputation. She wished, most fervently, that they could have had one serious conversation about the future, about what sort of marriage they might have, how they might build a life together; if only she knew what sort of wife he expected her to be, perhaps it might have been easier to commit to him, or not, as the case may be.

I want

Ah yes, the want. She wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to feel his arms around her, wanted to know what it was, to love a man with her whole heart. She wanted him to be the man she thought he was, the sort of husband who would build his wife up, and not grind her beneath his heel. But she wanted the Order, too, wanted the love of God and the certain security of her soul, the knowledge that she had not defied the Almighty and chosen a path of darkness for herself. But Doctor Turner had no faith of his own, and she knew he could offer her no reassurances on that score.

I want

You, she thought. I want you, but I want Him, too, and I don't know if there's room enough in my heart for both of you.

Sighing, then, she crumpled up the page and threw it away. Doctor Turner could tell her of his love, his devotion, could show her the pleasures a man might show a woman, but he could not tell her if choosing him would be to step beyond the mercy of God.

And so she pulled out a second page, and began to write again.

Dear Sister Julienne, the letter began. I am well, and the Mother House is a comfort to me.

And so she wrote, told her dear sister of the fears that plagued her, the answers that eluded her, the doubt that would not leave her be. She poured her soul into that letter, and while she wrote the trio of paper frogs Doctor Turner had given her sat silent sentinel beside her, lined up in a row on the edge of the table and reminding her each time she looked at them that there was a man out there, somewhere, who might just be the one to change her life forever.