2 July 1958

Best laid plans, Patrick thought ruefully as he drew his car to a halt in front of the convent. He had intended to leave at first light, but Tim was out of school and he had morning rounds that simply could not wait, and of course that had taken longer than he'd intended, and he'd driven back to the surgery to hang a sign that would alert his patients to his absence, only to be waylaid by an arthritic patient in dire need of assistance, and so it was nearly 4:00 in the afternoon by the time he reached Chichester. All day his mind had been awash with thoughts of her, his soul full of anger at the thought that her own sisters had hidden his letters, kept him from her, and his heart was consumed by questions. Would he be able to see her, to speak to her? What could he possibly say to the sisters that would convince them to allow him entry? And what would he say to her? Would the letters convince her, would she be happy to receive them, to receive him, would she turn him away with her head bowed, her heart still dedicated to her most holy purpose?

He did not know, but the time had come when all those questions would soon be answered. The Mother House of the Order of Saint Raymond Nonnatus loomed above him, a vast, hulking brute of a building, and in the blank windows that stared out at him Patrick almost felt as if the building itself were frowning at him, disapproving of his intent to spirit away one of its beloved daughters. Just let them try and stop me, he thought, and in the next moment he had stepped from the car, was marching smartly up the front walk with the packet of unread letters in his jacket pocket. Whatever it took, no matter what obstacle stood in his path, he remained determined to put those letters in her hands.

As he reached the front door Patrick gave three sharp knocks, and then stood back, waiting. Perhaps he should have prepared some sort of speech, some sort of introduction for himself, some way to explain his presence here at their front door, but his thoughts were too jumbled, spilling over one another, each one giving life to a dozen more until he could hardly hear over the noise in his own head. His heart pounded in his chest, chaotic and eager, his hands trembling from restless agitation. There was no way to know where she was, even now, which room in this monstrous cathedral she might occupy, or how he was to reach her if they remained determined to turn him away. Perhaps, he thought, the nun who opened the door would be young and kind, and on his side.

But then the door swung wide, and as he got a good look at the woman on the other side he realized at once that she was not. Her face was wrinkled with age, her mouth pinched and disapproving, her eyes sharp as a hawk's and just as compassionate, which is to say, not at all. Just the sight of her disgruntled expression made his heart sink in his chest.

"Can I help you?" she asked him in a tone of voice that seemed to indicate that she did not appreciate his interrupting her afternoon.

"I've come to see Sister Bernadette," he answered, stepping up towards her. Over the nun's shoulder he could see the foyer, a bit dim and cluttered though the sound of children's voice lent a certain warmth to the darkness. A staircase stood at the far end, leading up into shadows, and Patrick could not say from whence those voices came, but he was comforted by their happy tones, nonetheless. She might have been in seclusion, but a part of his heart hoped, for her sake, that she was allowed time with the children, to play with them and feed them their supper, that her heart might be allowed some small piece of joy.

"You'd be Doctor Turner, then," the old nun said, crossing her arms over her chest. She shifted her feet, changing her stance so that she seemed almost to take up the entire doorway, as if she intended to bar his entry, and all at once he realized who she was, who she must have been.

"And you're Sister Ursula," he said with a sigh, running a weary hand over his face. It was the worst of luck, that he should find himself face to face with the very woman who had tried so hard to keep him from his beloved, who had orchestrated their enforced separation. It was wrong to hate anyone, Patrick believed, most of all a nun, but oh, in that moment he hated her with everything he had.

"As I said in my letter, Sister Bernadette is in seclusion. Your presence here is most inappropriate. I must ask you to leave."

"Please, Sister," Patrick began to beg, knowing that all hope was lost and yet carrying on anyway, for the sake of the love he bore his Bernadette, "she needs to read these letters. How can she make her choice when-"

"It is not your place to manipulate her with your clever words, Doctor," Sister Ursula told him curtly. "She knows what you would have of her. Now she must see what it is the Lord wants. And if you loved her, truly, you would not have put her in this position."

Patrick recoiled from the woman as if he'd been slapped; how dare she, he thought, how dare she say such things to me, but then almost immediately, another voice seemed to whisper to him, what if she's right, what if you've been cruel, to force Bernadette to make this choice?

For a moment he simply hung his head, hopeless and desperate; he had been so sure of his purpose in coming here, but she was likewise sure in her determination to keep him away, and he had no idea what might happen next, how he might salvage the mess he'd made. But fate, or God himself, must have been on his side, for before he could speak a single word a beautiful, familiar voice cried out from somewhere in the darkness behind Sister Ursula.

"Doctor Turner?"

Patrick's head snapped up sharply, and there she was, his Bernadette, rushing down the stairs towards him, confusion written all over her face. Sister Ursula turned to look at her, no doubt intending to admonish her and send her away, and so Patrick seized his chance; he bulled straight past the old nun, pushing her aside with his own bulk, and while she sputtered and tried to regain her footing he ran to the foot of the stairs where Sister Bernadette was waiting for him.

"Oh, my love," the words came rushing out of his mouth before he could stop them, his hands reaching for hers in an instant. A gasp of surprise escaped her, but she did not pull away; she stood a step or two above him, taller than him for the first time in their acquaintance, her eyes bright with unshed tears and locked, unblinking upon his face. And oh, but she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, small and delicate and lovely, her features written upon his very soul. Her hands trembled in his own, but her fingers laced through his as if she ached, even as he did, for comfort, for warmth, for the chance to simply hold on to one another. That she should reach for him, too, that she should allow him to throw all propriety out the window, seemed to him to be a blessing, and he clung to her, his eyes searching her face. This was the woman he had come to love, the woman he meant to make his wife; she was everything to him, beautiful and gentle and strong, and he was left daze overwhelmed by her very presence. He had been too long without her, as he never wished to be again.

"I've been so worried about you," she told him breathlessly. He had wondered, before now, whether the prolonged silence would have troubled her, and knowing that it did, knowing that she cared enough for him to worry about him, knowing that he held in his pocket the balm that would soothe those hurts, lifted his spirits enormously. If she worried for him, then she had been thinking of him, as he had of her; if she worried for him, then there was still hope.

"I am going to fetch Mother Jesu Emmanuel and you are going to leave this place, Doctor Turner, if I have to drag you out by your ear!" Sister Ursula called from behind them, and then she was racing away, and Patrick was relieved, for in her departure she had allowed him the gift of a few precious moments spent alone with his beloved.

"Thank God for that," Patrick said as she departed, and Sister Bernadette laughed, the soft, damp sound of it reminding him of his purpose. Perhaps it was sacrilegious, to thank God for the departure of their only chaperone when Patrick stood intent on stealing Sister Bernadette away from her holy calling, but he was so bloody grateful he could not hide it, and she was not admonishing him.

"I hoped you'd write to me," Sister Bernadette told him, still looking down on him in wonder, as if she could hardly believe he was real. She had hoped, just as he had hoped; his heart sang in his chest, and it took every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep from gathering her in his arms and kissing her in his joy and his relief. "Every day, I hoped I'd hear from you, but-"

"I did," Patrick cut her off, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the letters. "I wrote to you, I did, but Sister Ursula kept the letters from you. Please, please take them," he pushed them into her hands, their fingers sliding together, warm and full of life, full of love, full of hope. Her left hand wrapped around the letters, clutched them tight to her chest, but with the right still she held him fiercely, as if she felt, even as he did, that she never wanted to let him go. Seeing her, touching her, hearing her voice, he felt as if he were breaking in two; he wanted to wrap his arms around her and carry her bodily from that place, take her home, take her to bed, hide with her from the cruelty of the world for the rest of his life, but he knew her choice was not yet made, and he must wait a while longer. For now, just for this moment, he could hold her hand, and that would have to be enough.

"How could she have done such a thing?" Sister Bernadette asked, her voice almost as angry as it was sad, while still her eyes drank in the sight of him. "She made me think you'd forgotten me." Patrick could imagine nothing worse, and as the tears began to spill from Sister Bernadette's glorious eyes he saw how that thought had wounded her, and took hope from the knowledge that she did not want to be forgotten. "I thought you didn't want-"

"I want you," he answered breathlessly, stepping up close so that he could lift his hand and brush the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. Her skin was soft and smooth as silk beneath his touch, and she did not shy away from him, only pressed herself against his hand and burned him alive with the heat of her gaze. "With everything I have, I want you," he told her earnestly, and he could feel the way she responded to his words, swayed towards him, her lips parted as if were to he kiss her now she would accept him. "Please, read the letters, I-"

"Doctor Turner!" An angry voice bellowed from behind him, and he started at the sound, knowing that his time was through. What sort of man gets himself thrown out of a convent? He thought wryly.

"I wish we had more time," he said, still gently cradling her perfect face in his palm. "Please, read the letters. Write to me, ring me, just please, let me know your answer. I'll come back, if I need to. I will not abandon you."

"I will read them," she promised him, "and I will answer, I will. I just need-"

"Doctor Turner, you will leave this place at once or the police will be called!" Sister Ursula barked at him then, and he knew that he needed to leave, and quickly, but he had not yet said all he'd meant to say.

"Please," he said to Sister Bernadette, already preparing himself for the agony of leaving her. "Come home to me. I will be waiting for you." And then, before anyone could stop it, he raised himself up and kissed her cheek, once, softly. The sound of Sister Ursula's outraged shriek echoed like gunfire in his ears, but Sister Bernadette's smile was soft, and full of wonder. It took all the strength he had to turn away from her then, but he did, turned and all but ran out the door before Sister Ursula could make good on her threats. He had done what he'd come here to do, had seen for himself that Sister Bernadette had not given up on him, had pressed his letters into her welcoming hands, had kissed her as best he could in the moment. It was enough; it had to be. She held all the cards, now, and there was nothing left for him to do but wait.