2 July 1958

Though Sister Ursula called out to her sharply, her words dripping with disdain and righteous indignation, Sister Bernadette ignored her completely. The moment Doctor Turner disappeared through the front door she turned and fled herself, the skin of her face and hands still tingling faintly with the remembered warmth of his touch. He had not forgotten her, or thought better of his rash proposal; he had written to her, and upon receiving no response he had come all this way just to press his letters into her trembling hands, just to tell her I want you. Those words echoed in her mind now, louder than Sister Ursula's admonitions, beautiful and holy as some vast sacred bell.

She had resolved herself to waiting for a letter from him, had in her mind equated such a message with all the importance of a sign sent from on high. If a letter came, she'd told herself, she would take it as an indication that her path in life led away from the Mother House, away from the Order. Well, she had a letter now - several of them, in fact, tied together in plain kitchen string - but more than that she had seen her Doctor's face, had looked into his eyes full of yearning, of want, of hope, and seen in him the same love, the same certain desire that burned within her own heart. If a single letter would have been sign enough to sway her, then his arrival was to her mind like a bolt of lightning sent from the heavens, illuminating the road that had been laid before her feet. Come home to me, he'd told her, his voice low and full of heat, I will be waiting for you. There was nothing she wanted more.

The moment she crossed the threshold of her tiny room she pulled the door closed sharply behind her. The bedroom doors in the Mother House did not lock; a nun has no secrets from her sisters. If Sister Ursula was angry enough she could have bulled right through, but somehow Sister Bernadette knew that she would not. Firstly, it was a gross invasion of privacy of the sort the sisters did not undertake, and secondly even Ursula must know that her cause was lost now; should she wrest those letters from Bernadette's hands it would not change things, not now. He had come to her, and he wanted her, wanted to give her a home. I will not abandon you, he'd told her, and oh, how her heart had leapt at those words. Her life before the Order had been full of loss, and no connection between her heart and another had been strong enough to withstand the test of time. Within the Order things had been more stable, but the sisters were sent where the Lord willed, and friends had been taken far from her side, more than once. And should she choose to leave she knew she would lose her connection to this place, would find herself untethered. But he had promised not to abandon her, had promised to catch her when she fell from grace, had promised to give her a home, and permanence, and she wanted the protection of his strong arms around her as she went.

She settled herself at the tiny desk in the corner of the room, breathless from the afternoon's excitement. It was like something from a dream, a fairytale come to life, and she was unaccustomed to such dramatics, and wholly unprepared for the way her fragile heart had leapt into life at the touch of his hand. Never before had she been romanced, wooed, pursued so single-mindedly by a man who cared for her, and she hardly knew what to do with herself, how to respond, but while her mind struggled to find some balance her heart cried out for more, more, more. More touch, more gentle words, more moments to spend in his company, to learn how much she could feel, if only she allowed herself to draw close to him. For he had opened up a world of feeling hitherto unknown to her, and she was luxuriating in it, in the beat of her heart, the tingle of electricity he'd spent sparking along her skin, the wild rush of hope.

The little paper frogs stood silent and eager on the edge of the desk, and so she laid the letters out in front of her, and carefully freed them from their bindings. Each letter had been stamped with a date by the postman, and so she arranged them in order, and began with the oldest one, her fingertips fumbling with the envelope, shaking from nerves and delight and desperate hope. His name, Doctor P. Turner, was scribbled on the back, and she looked at it for just a moment, wondering yet again what that P stood for. Phillip, perhaps, or Paul, or Peter; maybe the answer is inside, she thought, and pulled the letter free in a moment. She smoothed it against the desk top, and bowed her head to read.

This one had been sent a bare two days after she'd left; oh the heartache we both could have been spared, she thought, if only I'd received it earlier. That God had a plan in all things was a belief to which she clung, and so later, when she was readying herself for bed, trying to settle her mind, she would try to convince herself that perhaps this had all been a part of his plan. Perhaps she needed to have spent those weeks in seclusion in order that she might come to the realization that with or without Doctor Turner she was no longer content to remain at the Order's beck and call. Perhaps that moment in the foyer, Doctor Turner's hands holding her own so tightly, his eyes watching her beseechingly, had been preordained, to give evidence of the depth of his regard for her, and convince her that she was right to accept him. The Lord works in mysterious ways, she would tell herself later. But in this moment, she only held her breath, and read.

My dear friend...you have been much on my mind...to me, you are lovely...I will love you, with all that I have, and I will give you a home, and my heart, to do with as you will...Patrick

The words rushed before her eyes, a hitching sort of gasp escaping her as she felt the first sting of tears. His name was Patrick, and he loved her. He loved her! No more than two days after she'd left he'd written this letter to her, poured his heart out onto the page, and she could almost hear his voice, speaking those words, could when she closed her eyes imagine, just for a moment, that he was there, with her. Nothing she'd read in her entire life had ever been so beautiful as this.

His name is Patrick, she thought, still in a daze. It suited him, she thought, and she loved that name now, for she loved the man who bore it. What else could this feeling be, she wondered, but love? This need to be close to him, to see him, this yearning to share her life with him, this constant, steady ache that was only soothed by his presence? Why else should she feel so certain that his was the heart meant for her own? It was love, that made her hands tremble now, made her weep, made her reach out and press her fingertip against one of the little frogs he'd given her. Our little secret, a gesture of affection, binding them together; his hands had touched this thing, as she longed for him to touch her now, and she drew comfort from this physical reminder of him, of Patrick. Patrick, the man who loved her, who had set her heart free from the chains of restraint she'd placed upon herself, and taught her how to dream again.

That one letter alone would have been enough to sway her, but there were four more, and she devoured them hungrily.

The second had been sent only a few days later, and contained an inquiry from Tim, along with the hopeful thoughts of his father. How shall I explain that love is not always convenient, or welcome? Oh, their love was not convenient, not in the least, had thrown her entire life into a tailspin and clearly caused him some distress, but it was welcome, most welcome. There was nothing she wanted more than his love, to step into his arms and into his life, to find her home with those two boys who were so dear to her own heart. She had thought less of Tim than his father of late, and she felt a bit guilty for that now. To accept Patrick would be to accept his son, and she would do so gladly, with an open heart. He was a good boy, a sweet boy, curious and clever, and spending time with him had awakened within her a long dormant desire for a family of her own. She wanted them to be a family, the three of them together, but how would Tim feel, when he learned of his father's plans? Would he fear she meant to take his mother's place, that his father had already forgotten the first woman he'd wed? Sister Bernadette did not want that, did not want to pretend as if the woman had never existed. She had been dear to Patrick, once, had given birth to Tim and raised him until illness took her, and for that Bernadette would always admire her, this ghost from her beloved's past.

But would it not be a difficult road to walk, she wondered, to stand where another had stood? She loved Patrick, she knew that now, but she knew so little of him, of what a life with him would really entail. Would he measure her against his first wife, and find her lacking? How could she stand a chance against the rose-tinted memories of a love taken too soon? And how could she please him, satisfy him, make him happy, when he knew so much more of love and marriage than she? He seemed eager to take her into his home, into his arms, but there was so much she didn't know….

The little bubble of happiness within her chest began to deflate, just a bit, but there were more letters to read, and she turned her attention there at once, hoping some answer was contained within their pages.

In the third letter he had written of his fears, at having not heard from her, and to know that he had been distressed enough to send such a missive, to beg her for a response, grieved her dearly. Divine plan or not, it did not seem fair, that they had both been forced to languish for so long, thinking the other had forgotten them. But they each knew the truth, now, and she hoped that their brief visit might have been enough to soothe his fears, and reassure him that she was as much devoted to him as he was to her. Then again, she thought, Doctor had spilled his heart out to her there on the staircase, and she had done no more than promise to answer his letters. Does he know, she wondered, how I care for him? That I am ready, now, to take his hand, despite the questions I still have?

Weary of grief she moved onto the fourth letter, hoping it contained more joy than its predecessor.

In your silence I fear I may have found my answer. And yet, I live in hope...I find myself thinking, now, of that warm day in May...I have often wondered, in these last few weeks, what midwifery has taught you of marriage, whether it has put you off the proposition altogether…

Did he really think she would be frightened of such a union, afraid that he would inflict upon her the same sort of hurt she'd seen inflicted by untold numbers of husbands in the past? Patrick was the dearest man she'd ever known, and had shown her, more than once, what sort of husband he had once been, might be again. He treasured his late wife's memory, and spoke of her as if they had been equals. He treated everyone he met with gentle kindness, and had always been willing to listen when she spoke, had always given her the lead when the situation called for it. He had praised her skill, and valued her opinion, and all of these things combined with the tender touch of his hand had convinced her that she would be safe, with him. Troubled by the thought that he worried about her opinion of him, she read on.

I felt, in that moment, as if the pieces of my heart had slotted into place; and oh, but she had felt the same. That he remembered their embrace in his office so clearly, that the memory was precious to him, filled her heart with warmth, for she recalled it as the moment she realized the true depth of her regard for him, realized that she would not be able to turn aside from her affections for him. It was the moment he'd first held her, and she hoped, with all her heart, that it would not be the last.

But then, at last, she came to the final letter. This last message was an impassioned plea, desperate, grasping, a man casting all of himself down onto the page in the hope that some word of his might reach her, and change her course. Every word of it she devoured hungrily, his reminisces on his birthday, his questions about her own self - and how her heart soared, to think he cared enough to ask, to think he wanted to hear the answers, to think how she wanted to give them. And then he spoke of his late wife, and of his love, and tears blurred her vision as she read; loving once does not mean we cannot love again. And it is love I feel for you. I know it because I have felt it before…

Somehow, despite their long separation, despite the lack of communication from her, he had days ago hit upon one of her greatest fears, and sought to reassure her. He still loved his first wife, and had not forgotten her, but he had made room in his heart for Bernadette, and was determined that they should carry on together. His certainty lent confidence to her own heart, for while she knew nothing of love he did, and that he should be so sure, so completely convinced, helped her to trust in her own feelings. And he had written of Tim, had said we wish to be with you, had made it plain that he had considered the ramifications of their decision on his family, and remained certain of their course. He had made it plain that he had chosen her. No one else, in all her life, had ever chosen her. She had never been someone's dream, someone's hope, someone's most treasured companion. Relegated to the shadows by her habit and hampered by a soft voice and diminutive stature she had never really stood out, had never really felt seen. But oh, he had seen her, and chosen her; she could think of no better proof of his devotion than that.

But the letter was not finished; he carried on, and what she read next made her cheeks blush crimson.

And yes, I shall say it now as I've come to suspect I've nothing left to lose, I want to hold you. I want to touch you. You remain as distant and sacred to me as the saints you venerate, a goddess, an icon not to be sullied by the hands of man, but I want to reach out and touch you. I want to kiss you, to run my fingers through your hair, to see you as no one else has ever done, or ever will. I want you to be safe and at home in my arms, and in my bed. I want you beside me in the darkness. I want to come to know every inch of you, to see you tremble with pleasure, to hear your voice cry out for me - I want you, in every way a man can want a woman. I want you, and without you I am bereft, aching and lost.

A strange, pulsing sensation of need flooded through her as she read, her heart racing, a heat she had not felt before flowing through her veins fierce as fire. His words were more salacious than any ever before directed to her, though he was elegant and articulate in his prose, and not crude and overbearing. That he should want to touch her, to see you as no one else has ever done, or ever will...she shivered just thinking about it. No other living soul had ever seen her naked body, had ever touched her in the places where she longed to feel his hands skimming against her skin. Always before her mind had shied away from such thoughts, hampered by her vows, but they ran rampant through her now, inspired by his heady words. I want to see you tremble with pleasure...oh, she had never before imagined it, but she could not stop now, could not stop herself wondering how he could make her feel, if only she let him. Though she was well acquainted with the mechanics of...the act she was unfamiliar with the sensations of it. She knew it must be pleasurable, in some measure, that so many women would risk so much to hold a man to whom they were not wed, but she had not thought, before now, that such pleasure might be great enough to make her tremble. But there was a warmth and a yearning within her that whispered to her now of delights beyond her comprehension.

To hear your voice cry out for me...could he drive her to such heights, shaking with need of him, calling his name in a desperate plea for the joy he promised? And oh, what would it be like, to hold him, to run her hands across the sweat-slicked warmth of his back, to cradle his bulk between her thighs? If they were to be wed, she knew that such intimacy would be expected, required, but she had been so consumed by the practical details of their arrangement that until this moment the physical side of their relationship, while intriguing in its own right, had not been foremost in her mind. He had changed that, with just a few lines upon the page. If we wed, she thought, he will be mine to hold, to touch, whenever I want. I can kiss him, and feel no shame. He will be mine, and I will be his, in every way. To belong to another in such a profound and irreversible way, to know him intimately, every piece of him, to take him into her, and only him, for all the rest of her days...just thinking of it made her weak with a need she had never known before.

I want you, and without you I am bereft, aching and lost.

Such simple words, and yet they spoke to the very heart of her, for now she felt the same, without him there beside her. She wanted to run to him, to feel him gather her into his arms, to press her lips against his own and see what sort of fire they could unleash between them. She was, as he had said, completely lost, lost in her love of him, her dreams for their life together, the brilliant, blinding joy that came from knowing he felt the same.

I must speak to Mother Jesu, she thought then. Her mind was made up, now, and no going back. Whatever the future held, she would face it with Patrick by her side. No other course could satisfy her, not after reading these letters, seeing the hunger in his eyes, feeling the warmth of his touch. May God forgive me, I can no longer be a nun.