1 July 1958

Over a month, now, Sister Bernadette had spent in this half-seclusion in Chichester, praying and searching for guidance, trying to determine what it was she wanted most for her future. In the beginning she had felt as if those answers might never come to her; the only voice she heard in the stillness was her own heart, crying out for her Doctor, for her home, for peace. No great revelation came to her, no lightning strike moment when everything fell into place, when the heavens rolled back and the path before her was bathed in sparkling sunlight.

That was not to say that the answer had never come, only that it had not come all at once, or in the manner she was expecting.

Sometime in early June Sister Bernadette made a bargain with herself. She had exchanged letters with Sister Julienne, but no word had come to her from anyone else. If Doctor writes to me, she'd decided, if he reaches out to me, then I will know he is thinking of me, and that he is where I belong. If he asks me to come home to him, I will. Somehow establishing a course of action for herself eased her burdens; she knew what she would do, should she receive a letter from him, and in the beginning she believed, truly, that one day she might. He was a good man, a kind man, a man whose heart was full of love and compassion, and she could not imagine that he would abandon her to this exile, and think of her no more. All she had to do, then, was wait.

The time passed, and she filled it with prayer, and the quiet, humble work of the Mother House. Though she was still excluded from much of their daily activities she joined her sisters for lauds and for compline, took tea with them and stopped to chat with anyone she encountered during her afternoon walks through the garden. In those quiet conversations she found another answer, one she had not been looking for but which strengthened her resolve nonetheless. The sisters who lived here in the Mother House were devout and devoted, unquestioning in their commitment to their cause. They did not go out among the community, did not meet their neighbors in their homes, and knew very little of the world outside their front door. And in their isolation they remained content, and untested, and Sister Bernadette began to feel more pity than camaraderie for them.

There was so much more to life than this, she thought, than prayer and silence and the preservation of ancient traditions. The world was full of people who needed help, who needed care, who had not ever encountered the mercy of God, and Sister Bernadette was beginning to think that this was not the way to reach them. She did not want to hide, safe and secure, sheltered by the warmth of the Order, when there was work to be done just down the road. She wanted, very much, to leave this place.

She wanted to leave, but where then could she go? Back home in Poplar the sisters were of an earthier, more practical sort. The work they did was holy and blessed, and Sister Bernadette loved it. But they were confined, always, by the rules of the Order. There were things they could not do, help they could not give, and their choices were not their own. That lack of freedom, that vow of obedience; Sister Bernadette was beginning to suspect that she could not, in good conscience, maintain it any longer. Had they known about what was happening inside her heart the Order would never have allowed her all those quiet moments alone with Doctor Turner, and if she had not been permitted to speak to him openly, honestly, would he have ever said to her you are the first thing that's ever made me wonder if perhaps God is real, after all? How could she share her faith, if the Order kept her removed from those who most needed it? How could she serve God as she saw fit, if the Order bound her hands?

In the world, and not of the world, that was what the Sisters were meant to be; they were meant to go out among their neighbors, and yet remain, always, set apart. And that separation, that distance, had of late grown into a chasm, as the culture of the world changed and the Sisters remained locked in stasis. We must change with them, she thought now; perhaps not in the same way, but we cannot help them if we do not understand them. But change was not within the Order's remit, and faced with all of this, her concerns about the future of the Order's role in the world, her desire to help her neighbors, her longing with freedom, Sister Bernadette had very nearly come to her decision. Her desire to leave was fast outpacing the call she'd once felt to stay in this place.

She wanted to leave, but the road that led away from Chichester was cloaked in darkness, and she did not know if she could take it. No letter had come from Doctor, and as each day passed without word from him she became less certain that any letter was coming at all. The thought of leaving the Order, taking her life in her hands and returning to Poplar only to find that he did not wish to marry her at all, was bitter and inescapable. If Doctor would not have her she could not stay in that place that had been her home; she could not bear the humiliation of it, all those people who once revered her whispering whenever she passed, and she could not imagine what she would do with herself. Midwifery was her calling, but could she stand to move into Nonnatus House, not as a nun but as a nurse? The very thought of what Sister Evangelina might say was nearly enough to bring her to tears.

No, if Doctor did not want her she could not return to Poplar. She would be cast out into the world, without family, without friends, without a home. In time she could find her own way, perhaps; she had skills and experience, and surely there were other towns, other hospitals, in need of nurses. But she did not know how the world worked, how she would find a place to live or clothes to wear or how to make new friends, and she feared for herself, should she be so utterly cast adrift. Would that be her punishment for the willful, selfish desires of her heart? If she let her pride carry her away from the security of Order, would she find herself abandoned, forever alone as penance for her sins? Was that the choice, then, to follow God and remain with the Order, or to spurn him and in so doing remain forever beyond the reach of his love?

If only Doctor would write to her. It would make things so much easier, if she knew that he was waiting for her. It would be like a sign, she thought, a gift from God himself, telling her that she was making the right choice. In the absence of direction from him doubt festered, and so on this fine sunny Tuesday, when her thoughts were consumed with him, when he would be at clinic tending to the mothers and babies of Poplar as Sister Bernadette dearly longed to do herself, she sat down and began to pen a letter to him. She had waited long enough for him to come to her; perhaps the time had come, she thought, when she ought to reach out to him.

1 July 1958

The day had been a busy one; rounds in the morning - and rounds always took longer than planned, no matter how hard he tried to keep to a schedule - and a hasty sandwich for lunch, wolfed down in his car as he drove back to the surgery. A few hours there, then off to the clinic, then home to see to Tim for a moment before he went back out for his evening rounds, to call in on some of his most vulnerable patients. Darkness had fallen and sorrow had come for him, by the time he pulled his car to a halt in front of the building that housed his surgery and his modest flat.

He ought to go upstairs, and see to Tim. He ought to eat a bite of whatever Mrs. Penny had made for supper and try to organize his schedule for the following day. There was so much left to do, and yet somehow he could not quite find the strength to leave his car. Alone there in the darkness he let his heart overcome his mind, stared unseeing out into the night while his disappointment rose and swelled with him, a wave too vast for him to hold it back any longer.

She had not answered any of his letters. Not the gentle one he'd sent her first, or the second with Tim's request. And certainly not the last one, full of the desperate longings of a man who'd reached the end of his rope. She had not answered him, and that wounded him more than he could say. She knew, now, everything he wanted, everything he dreamed of, how deeply he desired her. She knew, now, that he wanted her to be his wife, that he wanted to love her, to make love to her, share his life with her. She knew these things, and she had not answered him. Surely, he thought, if she wanted the same he would have had some word from her by now. Surely, he thought, if she wanted to come home she would have done so already.

She's made up her mind, and she wants no part of you, a terrible voice whispered in the back of his mind. Give her up, for she has given up on you already.

So great was his sorrow, his distress, that he might well have shed a tear, but in the next breath someone opened the back door of the car, and he turned his head to see Timothy clambering into the seat behind him.

"You ought to be asleep," Patrick told him gently. In truth, he was relieved to see his son; nothing in his life brought him such joy as Timothy did. He was the best parts of both of them, Patrick and Marianne, tied up in one delightful package, and Patrick loved that boy more than he loved his own life. Nothing else could make him smile, now, but just the sight of Tim's face had the corners of his lips turning up in a moment.

"Are you sad, Dad?" Timothy asked him, crossing his little arms across the seatback in front of him. The question left Patrick dismayed; he had hoped, before now, that his attempts at keeping up a cheerful facade had been sufficient to shield Tim from the very grownup heartbreak that had fallen upon him. The last thing he wanted to do was explain all of this to Tim; the boy still believed in happy endings, and Patrick did not want to take that belief from him.

"How could I be sad when I've got you?" he answered. That was the only way forward for him, he knew, to put aside thoughts of love and focus on his son, to try to be the best father he could be, and leave thoughts of being a husband once more far behind him. Sister Bernadette had left him but Timothy was still here, and Timothy needed him.

"Granny Parker said you used to just sit in the car after Mummy died, like a sheepdog without his sheep."

"Did she?" Of course she had; Marianne's mother was a good woman, on the whole, but she talked constantly, about everything and everyone, and while Patrick knew that whatever she'd said had not been meant as judgment he wished she'd exercised a little more caution where Tim was concerned. He did not want Timothy to know about the moments of darkness he'd experienced after Marianne's death, when he'd been so crippled by grief that he could not move. A sheepdog without his sheep; it was an apt metaphor, he thought. Marianne had given him a family, a purpose, had given him direction for his energy and his enthusiasm. Without her he had been lost, utterly lost, had not known where to go or what to do.

"Are you sad because Sister Bernadette has gone away?"

From the mouth of babes, Patrick thought grimly. Timothy was so young, but he was a clever boy, and he had made the connection all on his own. Yes, Patrick had sat paralyzed by grief after Marianne died and he was doing much the same now, now that she had left him, too, not dead but beyond his reach just the same.

"Tim-" he would have to explain himself, somehow, and yet Timothy did not give him the chance, for in the next moment the boy reached into his pocket, and withdrew a small packet of letters, tied together with string.

"This came for you today," Tim said, handing the letters over.

Patrick's hands were trembling as he took them. No wonder Tim had asked after Sister Bernadette; he untied the string, and found that this little packet contained every letter he had ever sent to her, addressed to her in his somewhat hasty scrawl, each one of them unopened. She had not read them, not a single one of them, and that realization crashed into him with a stupendous force. Had she turned her heart against him already? Would the letters sway her, if only she had the chance to read them? Or was it too late; had the time come for him to abandon all hope?

"Why didn't she read your letters?"

Christ, I wish I knew the answer, he thought. It seemed an act of cruelty, to ignore him so completely, to cast his words back in his teeth without consideration. And yet he could not believe that she was capable of such cruelty, for she had always seemed to him to be gentle, and good, had always treated him so warmly. This is a mystery I can't solve tonight, he told himself; he had Tim to think about, and he could not bear any more sorrow. So he began to stack the letters together once again, and as he did a small note fluttered out from between the pages. He caught hold of it with trembling hands, and read it in a moment.

Dear Doctor Turner,

Sister Bernadette is in seclusion, and as such it is not appropriate that you bombard her with correspondence. This a decision that Sister Bernadette much reach with the guidance of the Lord, and without your meddling. Please do not send another letter. She will not receive it in any case. I ask that you respect our ways, even if you do not respect our vows.

Sincerely,

Sister Ursula

From the Order of Saint Raymond Nonnatus

Chichester

The words that came spilling out of Patrick Turner's mouth just then would have made a sailor blush.

"Dad!" Timothy sounded almost impressed with his fluent vulgarity, but Patrick hardly heard him over the roar of his heart. Of course she was not capable of such cruelty, but it seemed at least one of her sisters was; they had kept her from him, and he could not allow this enforced separation to continue. She had to read his letters; she must. He had to see her, had to hear her voice; damn their rules, damn their pride, damn their traditions. It was not fair, was not just, that she should be kept alone and isolated without even these letters to reassure her that he still wanted her. What she must think of him! All these weeks, she'd not heard a word from him; did she think he'd sent nothing at all?

This will not stand.

His hands itched to reach for the keys, desperate to go to her, to press the letters into her hands, to tell her outright how much he loved her, how much he wanted her to come home. And perhaps he would have driven out that very moment, were it not already too late to undertake such a journey, were Timothy not sitting in the backseat of the car. Tomorrow, he told himself, wrapping those letters in his hands. As soon as it's light.

"Dad?" Timothy's voice was small and afraid, and Patrick berated himself for his outburst, for not thinking of how this must all look to his son.

"Let's go and see if Mrs. Penny left anything for dessert, shall we?" Patrick said tightly. He would have to explain all of this to Tim, and soon. He had never been in the habit of lying to Timothy, and he did not intend to start now. But Sister Bernadette had not received his letters, and he would have to correct that mistake before he could do anything else. Once I've seen her, he thought, then I can talk to Tim, and tell him what's happening. Once I've seen for myself if she's happy, if she still wants to be with us. Tomorrow.

After all these weeks of waiting he at last had some purpose, and that purpose filled him, holy and righteous. He would go to her tomorrow, and put an end to all this doubt.