A/N: I have no idea how long it would take a letter to get from Chichester to London in 1958, and so I beg a little leniency with my timeline here.

9 July 1958

It had been a week, now. A week since he'd driven like a madman to Chicester, the parcel of letters sitting in the seat beside him, still tied up neatly in string. A week since he'd seen her, the bright flush of her cheeks, the sparkle of her eyes. A week since he'd held her hand, and felt the warmth of her seeping into his very bones. A week of hope restored, and desperate, silent waiting. A week of fielding questions from Tim he didn't have the faintest idea how to answer. It seemed to have lasted an eternity, that week; though he was busy as ever and there was much to occupy him still he felt himself consumed with the waiting, every fiber of his being focused on Chichester, listening with his heart as well as his ears for some sign sent from his beloved, some indication of which way the winds of her desire might blow. Whether she would sail back to Poplar or leave him forever he could not say, and so he agonized, lost in waiting.

It was a Wednesday. Wednesday meant rounds in the morning, and surgery in the afternoon. Morning rounds had, as ever, run over, but the surgery schedule was light, and for that Patrick was duly grateful. What he needed, more than anything else, was a chance to catch his breath and find a spot of lunch. Peace and quiet were not in the offing, however, for he had no sooner settled himself behind his desk with a sandwich and a cup of tea than the door banged open and Tim came racing through, his face lit up with excitement.

"Dad! Dad!" he called as he ran to Patrick's side. "It's from Sister Bernadette!"

Tim exuberantly thrust a letter under Patrick's nose, waving it around and threatening to give his father a paper cut with its edge. But Patrick could hardly fault the boy for his enthusiasm; he was perishing with want of her, anxious for news of her, and eager to read the letter for himself. Any word of her would be most welcome, particularly after his visit to the Mother House, but it was too soon, he thought, for her to have read his letters and answered him already; when had she written him this letter, and what could it possibly say?

"Are you going to read it?" Tim asked him excitedly.

"Of course I am," Patrick answered him, grinning as he snatched the letter from his son's hand and made to open it. Perhaps it was unwise, to read such a letter when Tim was present; there was no telling what it might say, or how Patrick might react to it, and he did not want his son to witness his distress, should the contents of that letter not be to his liking. And if they were to his liking, he didn't fancy answering a hundred questions about what she'd said, trying to translate the very grown-up desires of two adults into language that was appropriate for a boy. Perhaps it was unwise, but he did it just the same, for he could not wait another moment to read it, and he felt it would be cruel to boot Tim out of his office, given the emotional upheaval of recent days.

The letter was dated July the first, and written in an elegant hand, and Patrick devoured it hungrily.

Dear Doctor Turner, it began.

I hope this letter finds you well. It is a pleasant day here, but then most days are pleasant in Chichester. I have passed the time since last we spoke in the company of my sisters, and have been allowed to help with some of the orphans who live here. Tending to the children has been the highlight of my days.

And while in general I have no complaints, I must confess that I find myself worried by your silence. I had hoped, before now, that you might send a letter to me. I had hoped that our long separation might grieve you, as it grieves me, and that you might be moved to correct that grievance. And yet I have heard not a word from you, and am left to draw my own conclusions.

I know that the proposal you made was undertaken in haste. It was a terrible moment, and Sister Julienne suspected all manner of untoward things. And you are a good man, and you sought at once to correct what you perceived as an error on your part. I think you were trying to save me, in your own way, to spare me the shame of having been caught in the very act of violating my vows. If that was the only reason you chose to offer me your hand in marriage, however, I must say it was not an act of kindness. I would like, very much, to marry you, but only if you truly wish to marry me as well. I will not be an act of sympathy, another burden you shoulder in the hopes of helping another. You give so much of yourself to your community already, and I will not take more from you.

Perhaps it is strange, that I should want to marry you. I do not know your Christian name, or the names of your parents. I do not know if you have any siblings, or where they might live. I do not know what sort of man you are in the privacy of your own home. I think sometimes the list of things I do not know about you is endless. And yet, still, I find myself drawn to you. Is that too forward of me, to say such a thing in a letter? Perhaps it is, but I think I've nothing left to lose, not now.

I have lost it all already, you see? I never dreamed of marriage, a man to call my own; I was content in my vocation, certain that I had made the right choice. That certainty has deserted me now. To belong to the Order is to cease to belong to oneself; they decide where I will go, what work I will do, what clothes I shall wear, what food I shall eat, what help I can give and in what measure. They tell me what to believe, and how I should comport myself. Such structure was comforting in my youth, but I find myself dreaming now of freedom. You've seen it with our patients, the way the laws of the church bind our hands. I do not want to be held back by someone else's decree. I do not want to wake one day and learn that they have decided I would be of more use elsewhere. I do not want to fall asleep alone every day for the rest of my life. Even if you will not have me, even if no man ever would, I cannot remain in the Order, not now. There is too much I want, and I will seek it, though the Order tells me such selfishness is a sin.

So it is my intention, before the month is out, to renounce my vows. What I would like most, if such a choice be given to me, would be to return to Poplar, and to you. I'll not deny that you are the one who made me see that I can no longer forbid myself the love of man, the warmth of a family. Your heart is so good, and your hands are so warm, and your face is so kind, and I think of you, often. I think of a life with you, and your sweet Tim, and I think nothing could make me happier.

But what of you? Is it truly what you wish, to marry a woman who has never known what it is to love as you have loved, to bring me into your home when I am as much a stranger to you as you are to me? How can you know - how can we know - which choice is best, when we have never spoken plainly to one another of our feelings? I do not know if you love me, truly, if you kissed my hand out of kindness, to heal a wound, or because you wanted to kiss me, and thought my hand the safest choice. I think often of that moment in the kitchen, what I would have done, what I would have said, if only Sister Julienne had not interrupted us. You have held me, comforted me, and I have done the same for you, and in that moment, if you had tried to kiss me, I think I would have let you. I think I would have wanted you to.

But we will never know, will we? What has been done cannot be undone, just as this letter cannot be undone. I am frightened of what you might think, should I send it, and frightened of what you might think if I don't. Since you have not written to me I felt that it fell to me to write to you, to open this channel of communication between us. And so though I fear it, I will send this letter off. And I will close by saying please, please write to me. Tell me if you love me, or if you think you ever can, tell me if you truly wish to marry me or if you are grateful for this chance to rescind a proposal made in haste. You asked me once not to hide from you, and so now I ask you the same. I have shown you my heart; please, show my yours in return.

I remain yours, faithfully,

Sr. Bernadette

Patrick sank back against his chair, breathless and overwhelmed by the words he'd read. How could it be, he wondered, that despite the obstacles between them, despite not having spoken for over a month, their thoughts should have charted the same course? How could it be that she had so eloquently given voice to his own concerns, when they had never had the chance to discuss their future together? That she had sent this letter on the same day his own were returned to him was not lost on him; it seemed to be a sign, he thought. That on the same day, miles apart, they had been thinking of one another, wanting one another, yearning for one another. The day she'd written this letter he had been so paralyzed by grief that he could not leave his car; they had both of them given in, that day, to the love they felt for one another.

And what a love it was; she wanted him, truly, as he had so desperately wished. There had not been time, during his brief visit to Chichester, for her to tell him such things, but the letter spoke for her. She had decided, without word from him, to leave the Order of her own accord, to go out into the world in search of freedom, and love. And oh, but he wanted to give those things to her. He wanted to watch her soar, wanted to learn her dreams and make them all come true, one by one. He wanted to love her, with every piece of himself. I do not want to fall asleep alone every day for the rest of my life, she'd told him, and Patrick did not want that, either, wanted to be the one who saved her from that loneliness, wanted them to save one another.

But it had been a week since she'd written this letter, a week since he'd seen her. Why the delay? Why had she not rung him, come to him; had she written another letter?

"Dad?"

Patrick's mind had been so consumed with his own questions he had quite forgotten Timothy was there. He would have to tell the boy something, give some indication of the news contained in that letter, but words failed him. She wants to come home, he thought dimly, she wants me, as I want her, but how? What shall I do, when I have not heard from her since Chichester?

He opened his mouth to speak, to give some accounting for the letter, but he was abruptly cut off by the shrill ringing of the telephone. For a moment he only frowned at it, disturbed by the interruption, but only for a moment. Whatever else he was, whatever else he might like to be, he was first and foremost a doctor, and he had a responsibility to his patients. And so he reached for the phone, and lifted it to his ear.

"Doctor Turner," he barked as he answered it, watching Tim as the boy all but vibrated with excitement, eager to learn what Sister Bernadette had said. There was a moment of silence, and then the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard was whispering into his ear.

"Patrick?"