9 July 1958
Shelagh Mannion stood alone on the steps of the Mother House with her eye glued to the horizon, a single, rather worn case sitting on the bricks by her feet. It was strange, she thought, how an entire life could be contained within that one small case. Everything she owned in the world, everything she could claim as her own, every hope and dream she'd ever had was in that case. Two sets of clothes, now terribly out moded, two pairs of knickers, two satin slips, one set of nylon stockings, one well-thumbed Bible, three somewhat smushed folded paper frogs, one leather handbag, and an envelope containing roughly one hundred pounds. That and the clothes on her back was all she had to show for the thirty-three years she'd walked this earth, and it seemed a rather pitiful accounting of her life.
But there was rather a lot waiting for her back in Poplar, she knew. Trixie had helped her find a room to rent, made all the arrangements so that when she returned to her home there would be a safe place for her to rest her head. The little room would come furnished, not that she had so very much to fill it; her meager possessions would not fill one single bureau drawer, but the hundred pounds in her case would go a long way towards helping her build a new life for herself. More than that, though, more than material comforts she knew that she would find dreams in Poplar, dreams enough to fill her heart for all the rest of her days. Love was waiting for her there, a man and a child who would become her family. Until now her life had been spartan, impersonal, every piece of herself given over to service of the Lord. That was all set to change. Love and laughter, arguments and dishes, Cubs meetings and dinners and quiet nights spent in Patrick's embrace, it all waited for her there, the promise of a life that would be bursting at the seams, and hers, unequivocally, to do with as she wished.
The waiting had grown unbearable, and Sister Ursula's unforgiving stare weighed too heavily on her shoulders, and so she had come outside to wait, away from the curious looks of the younger sisters, the disapproving expressions of the elder, the knowing sorrow in Mother Jesu Emmanuel's eyes. This place did not belong to her, not any more, and so she had whispered her goodbyes to the familiar worn stones of the house that had once been at the very core of her being, and stepped out into the unknown, waiting in the wan sunlight of a misty afternoon for her love to come and claim her.
It had been easier than she'd anticipated, walking away from the Order. Well, that first conversation with Mother Jesu, when she had haltingly, tearfully explained her decision, that had not been easy. That had been one of the hardest moments of her entire life, but once the break was made a certain sense of calm settled upon her. The thing was done, and there would be no going back, and so she had forged ahead, with Mother Jesu to guide her. First Mother Jesu had requested that she spend one more day in prayer and fasting, to confirm that her decision was the right one. Then she'd arranged for Shelagh's things to be delivered from storage, and drawn up the paperwork. And then, then Shelagh had taken a very deep breath, and signed the name she'd been given at birth for the first time in over a decade. Seeing those letters spill across the page, hearing Mother Jesu call her Miss Mannion; there had been a sort of liberation in that moment, a sense of a caged bird having been released at last to the wild. Her heart had sung in her chest, and she had been content.
Her conversation with Patrick had only strengthened her resolve; he wanted her, as she wanted him, had jumped at the chance to come and claim her, to free her from the awkwardness of an evening spent in the company of women who were no longer her sisters, whose love and affection and very way of life she had scorned for his sake. He was coming to her now, would be here any moment, and she could not stop the eager pounding of her heart in her chest.
Will he like what he sees? She wondered, anxiously tugging at the hem of her short jacket. Before she'd spoken to him she'd concocted a plan of sorts, decided that she would make her way to Poplar alone, settle her things in her rented room, and perhaps buy a new outfit before seeking him at the surgery. She wanted, so badly, to please him, wanted the first time he saw her out of the habit to be special, to move his heart as she knew it would move her own. And while she was grateful to him for his offer, relieved to know she would not have to wait another day to see him, she could not help but fret that after so much uncertainty, so many hopeful dreams, the reality of her would not live up to his expectations.
A part of her feared that her appearance would be rather underwhelming to him. It had, after all, been more than a decade since she'd had her hair styled and set. She had no pins or ornaments with which to adorn her hair, had not had it professionally cut since before she'd taken her vows, and so had been forced to settle on wearing it in a rather severe bun. And her clothes were no better; she had two simple suits and one plain brown dress. For a time she had stood staring at those clothes in dismay, for while it had been years since she'd given any thought to her style of dress she had witnessed the changing of fashion through her time with her patients, and she knew these clothes were far behind the times. They were utilitarian, and practically sexless, nothing pretty or feminine about them, but they were all she had, and so she'd shrugged into one of those brown suits. It fit her well, still, and though she was covered from knees to neck it showed the neat tuck of her waist, the flare of her hips, the shape of a body that had been hidden for so long that she hardly recognized it herself, now. If he could love me in the habit, she reminded herself as she stood still and waiting, he can love me like this, surely.
And so she stood, and fretted, until at last through the gloom of threatening rain she saw a very familiar car turn onto the drive and begin to wind its way towards her. The old green car was as much a part of Patrick as his own two hands, and every time she saw it she smiled, for she knew that he must be near. He was very near now, drawing nearer by the second, and she began to twist her hands anxiously together, hardly knowing what to do with herself. There was a piece of her heart that wanted, very much, to run down the steps, to meet him as he pulled the car to a stop, to fling herself into his arms the moment he stepped out of it. Perhaps such a display of affection would be allowed now, given their predicament, but she was not certain if they were actually properly engaged, or only promised to one another, or really what they were at all, and besides, she had never been the sort to show her feelings so easily. Always in the past she had kept her heart tucked away deep inside herself, and she had spent so many years denying any sort of desire that she was not entirely sure how to go about acting on those desires, now that she could.
At any rate she supposed it would be unkind to force him to walk up those steps while she stood unmoving above him; we shall meet one another in the middle, she decided as the car came lumbering up towards her. In this, and in all things.
And so she picked up her case, and marched smartly down the steps even as the car drew to a halt, watching as Patrick unfolded himself from the driver's seat, tugged his jacket back into place and began to walk towards her. Oh, what a sight he made, tall and handsome, smiling that gentle smile that made her heart melt to see it. For months she had been without him, denied even this simple pleasure, and the sight of him now, the knowledge that he had come for her, that he would not ever leave her, that he was hers, now, that their lives were about to change forever, set off a roaring in her mind. This was it; every step she had taken since the day she met him had been leading her to this moment. To this man, strong and brave and kind, walking towards her, offering her all of himself.
"Hello," she said softly as they came to a stop together, less than a foot of space between them. Carefully she set her case upon the ground and stood very still, waiting for some sign she could not fathom. She wanted, very much, to reach for him, for him to reach for her, for this to be easy, as natural as breathing. But now that he was here a strange sort of fear gripped her; she did not know how to do this, how to be a fiance, a lover, a wife. She did not know what to say, or what he would expect from her, did not know how to close the distance between them without embarrassing them both. Before now she had hoped that he might take the lead between them, that he might with his usual brand of reckless enthusiasm rush them both into their new life together, but he seemed to be holding himself back, and she did not entirely know why. Perhaps he was waiting for her, trying to be mindful of her inexperience, perhaps he was as frightened as she, perhaps he was having second thoughts; a million possibilities swirled through her mind, and she did not know yet which way the dice might fall.
"Hello," he answered, staring at her quite openly. It had taken a great deal of strength to squeeze even that one word past his lips; he could hardly breathe for the beauty of her. The honey-gold shine of her hair, the bright piercing blueness of her eyes, the delicacy of her features unencumbered by the voluminous habit, all of it combined into a picture of such beauty he could hardly think. He had known before now, he supposed, that she was small and soft and lovely, but until this moment he had not realized quite how small and soft and lovely. To see her bared to him this way, the smooth length of her calves, the curves of her slight frame, the notch of her collarbones, even the fine swirls of her ears revealed to him at last was as shocking and provocative and earth shattering as if he had seen her naked, for he beheld the truth of her now, not the image of a nun unreachable and unattainable but the vision of a woman, his to hold, to love, as long as he lived. This was who she really was, not Bernadette, distant and incomprehensible, but her, the woman who had lived within the heart of Bernadette, the woman he had fallen in love with, the woman he would marry.
"Have you been waiting long?"
It was a foolish question; he knew exactly how long she'd been waiting, given that he had flown to his car the moment their phone call ended, but she had seemed so forlorn, so isolated, standing there upon the steps of the place that had once been her home with no one to see her off, and he could not help but wonder if she had spent every moment since she'd hung up the phone standing there, alone, waiting for him.
"A little while," she told him shyly. And then she shivered, just a little, as the wind whipped around them, and Patrick moved at once, without thinking. She was so small, without the habit to lend its air of gravitas to her, to warm her, and her little suit seemed too thin for the unseasonable chill of this gloomy afternoon. All he wanted was to keep her warm, and safe, and with him, and so he closed the distance between them at once, slid his jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. The movement brought him in close, so unbearably close to her, her wide blue eyes watching him in fascination as she looked up at him unblinking as if she, too, could hardly believe that any of this was real. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to wrap his arms around her then, to hoist her up against him and kiss her until they were both breathless and overcome, but he had already pushed her so very far, and he did not want to risk making them both uncomfortable by asking for too much too soon. And yet he could not release her entirely, and so he caught the lapels of the jacket in his hands and held her close to him.
"I hardly know what to say," he confessed. Of necessity they had spent so much time in silence, remarking on trivial things and keeping their private thoughts hidden. There was no need for such secrecy now, no need for him to feel any shame where she was concerned, and though his heart was bursting with the many things he longed to tell her he did not have the first idea where to begin.
But she did; of course she did. She always knew the way, when he could not find it himself.
"I know you so little," she told him breathlessly, "but I couldn't be more certain."
He could see her resolve written on every line of her face, and his heart gave a great leap in his chest, for her words reassured him that she felt as he did, that they had stepped together into the great unknown, had turned aside from the easy road and now ventured into a future whose end was hidden from view, but still so full of hope. They would muddle through the dark together, and one day, one day soon, he was certain they would find themselves once more in the light.
"I am completely certain," he answered earnestly, pulling her just a little bit closer. If he dared he could have reached out and cupped her face, could have felt the warmth of her cheeks beneath his palms, could have ducked his head and kissed her, but then a strange thought occurred to him, and he set aside thoughts of kisses in favor of asking the one question that was foremost in his mind.
"I don't even know your name."
The question of her name, the nature of her true self, had plagued him for longer than he cared to admit. It had taken on an almost holy significance in his mind, her secret name, the emblem of her true self. He felt as if he'd wandered into one of the old stories about the fair folk, where to give one's name was to hand over one's own self. The moment had come for him to ask for her name, for her to give it, and in the giving of it he would know that she had bound herself to him, had cast aside her old life in favor of the one he offered, and he was glad of it.
"Shelagh," she told him, smiling. It was a beautiful name, a perfect name, a name that suited her well, and he loved it, as he loved her.
"Patrick," he told her, as if they were only just meeting for the first time. And though he would never tell her such a thing, the truth was he gave her his name in that moment for the same reason he had asked for hers; he would take no more from her than he was willing to give himself, and he wanted, very much, for them to share everything they had with one another.
"There," she said. "We've made a start."
Everything they did not know about one another they would begin to learn, starting now, in this moment. Life stretched out before them, not desolate as it had seemed when he first came to Poplar but full of joy, now, full of hope. They had made a start, and he was eager for each and every new beginning that awaited them, every first, every memory they would make. He wanted, very much, to kiss her, but an enchantment seemed to hang over him, to restrain him when ordinarily he would have run free. It would not do, he thought, to sully this beautiful, golden moment with his own baser desires. But he could not hold himself back from her entirely, and so he leaned down, and pressed his lips against her forehead. It was not enough, when he was trembling with want of her, when he was so desperate to hold her, but he hoped that she could feel the affection in the gesture, and understand its meaning. Her skin was cold beneath his lips, and so as he pulled away he stepped aside, and held out his arm in a gesture of welcome.
"Come on, then," he told her gently. "Come out of the cold. I'm afraid I've had to bring Timothy along, and he's eager to see you."
"I'm eager to see him," she answered, smiling. "I've missed him. But Patrick, before we go," she reached out, one of her hands coming to rest against his arm, and he froze on the spot, tension and longing coursing through him like wildfire. Those eyes of hers, bright and brilliant, were wide and locked upon his face, a crimson blush staining her pale cheeks. There was uncertainty in her gaze, to be sure, but there was hope there, too, and the sight of her left him almost weak in the knees.
"Could I just…" she stepped up close to him as her words failed her, her hand still holding his arm, and suddenly he realized what it was she meant to do, what it was she was asking for, and he could not help but grin, relieved, and overjoyed.
"Yes," he managed to choke out his answer, and as he did she smiled, and lifted herself up onto her toes, and kissed him gently. It was a soft kiss, a fleeting kiss, the shy kiss of a young woman not accustomed to such things, but eager for them just the same. And just that faint brush of her lips against his own was enough to fill him topful with love of her, to make him tremble, to reassure him that whatever her many reasons for choosing this path might have been earnest love of him was foremost among them. She was not afraid of him, then, he realized, nor was she afraid of her desire for him, or at least not afraid enough to keep from acting on that love. She had kissed him, had not waited for him to find the courage, had not lingered expecting him to take control of things between them, and oh, he could think of nothing more delightful.
She settled back on her feet, still blushing furiously, but smiling, too, her expression faintly victorious. Somehow Shelagh had found the courage to kiss him, and he rather felt the moment had come for him to be brave, as well.
"Shelagh," he breathed her name, reaching out to cup her flaming cheek in his palm. Christ, but she was small, and he worried he might crush her beneath the weight of his love, but she only pressed herself against his hand, her smile never wavering.
"Yes," she whispered, and there was nothing for it then. He caught hold of her at once, one of his hands sliding round her waist - fearing for a moment he might be struck by lightning for daring to do such a thing while standing in full view of the Mother House - while with the other still he cradled her cheek. He bowed his head, and kissed her soundly, the way he had longed to do for months now. A little gasp escaped her, lips parting only for a moment, and then she was kissing him back, tenderly, surging up towards him while she held his jacket in place around her shoulders with one hand, and fisted the other in the back of his shirt, holding her to him even as he held her. All thought left him, all fear forgotten; she was with him, now, Shelagh, whole and safe, and she wanted him, and nothing else in the world mattered.
He might have stood there all day, wrapped up in her, reveling in the feeling of her kiss; strange, but despite his age and his experience, despite all he had known of life and everything that had led him to this moment, he felt rather as if this were his very first kiss, as if everything was starting over fresh. And there was beauty in that new beginning, and joy, but before he could lose his head entirely there came, rather suddenly, the unwelcome sound of a car horn honking. Patrick lifted his head from his beloved, the fog of love beginning to slowly clear from his mind, and looked to find Tim sitting behind the wheel of the car, leaning on the horn and grinning broadly.
"Oh, dear," Shelagh said, but there was laughter in her voice, and her smile was soft.
"Shall we go home, my darling?" Patrick asked her, taking a step back and holding out his hand to her.
"Yes," she answered. "Please."
And then she took his hand, and let him lead her back to the car, and so they began their journey into the unknown, together.
A/N: and so ends this little story! Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me, and for all your encouragement. Patrick and Shelagh still have a long road ahead, and I will explore that in a new story, a sequel to this one which should make an appearance later this week.