9 July 1958

I'm glad Auntie Shelagh came home, those were the last words Tim spoke as he nestled beneath his blankets and fell into the easy slumber of a child without a care in the world. And those were the words that ricocheted through Patrick's mind now as he lay in his own bed, eyes open and staring blankly at the ceiling, sleep a long way off for him yet. She had come home, come back to him, that dear girl with her bright eyes and her brilliant smile, and Patrick was glad, too, of course he was glad. Her gentle assurance - I couldn't be more certain - had restored his happiness, given him cause to hope, given wings to all his wildest dreams. She was certain, as he was certain, certain that this path they had chosen was the right one, that they could be good for each other, that the life they might forge together would be more wonderful than any they could make apart.

And yet, for all his happiness, some sense of trepidation lingered. It was not doubt; he did not doubt that he loved that girl, did not doubt that he would do everything in his power to make her happy, to make their life together beautiful for them both. What he felt now more closely resembled fear, or perhaps guilt, or perhaps both. He was afraid, truth be told, of how their friends and neighbors might respond to the news that she was no longer a nun. At her insistence he had taken her to Nonnatus House to spend the night, and Nurse Franklin's jaunty wave had been friendly enough, but would the nuns be so welcoming? How would they treat a woman who had once been one of their own, and left them for the sake of a man? Would they scorn her, would a night spent beneath their roof be an unpleasant one? Or would a more subtle and therefore more sinister sort of rift spring up between them, as they drew a line between their love of Bernadette and their new friendship with Shelagh? And oh, Christ, but their neighbors were a contentious lot much prone to gossip and delighting in schadenfreude; would the gleeful old biddies of Poplar make much of Shelagh's fall from grace, and in the process make her life difficult?

It was not only the vow of chastity which Shelagh found difficult to maintain, Patrick knew that now. He knew how her heart longed for freedom beyond the strictures of the Order, but there were so few people who were privy to the inner workings of her mind, and he knew they would all fixate themselves at once upon that one particular aspect of her new life with glee. They had known her from the start as a nun, a woman purified and blessed, set aside by God, for God, and now he meant to sully her with his own two hands, and now…

Now she would be sullied indeed, by his connection to her. It was the most salacious thing to happen in Poplar in recent memory, he was sure, his having seduced a nun away from the Order. It would be all anyone could talk about. And beneath his fear of public retribution and how Shelagh might hold up in the face of it another, more insidious worry lingered. She was so young, too young for a tired old man like him, and she'd spent the last decade in a convent. Though she had taken it upon herself to kiss him, and though he counted that a positive indicator of her intentions indeed, the truth was her kiss had been hesitant, and brief. They had not discussed it, her history, what she knew of the things men and women got up together under cover of darkness, and he did not know...well, he did not know what she knew. There had been a letter, written to her in his desperation, in which he spoke as plainly as he dared of his own desires, but he did not know what her thoughts were on the subject. Would she be frightened of him? Could he woo her as gently as he wished, or would his own eager passions overwhelm her utterly? What would it be like, the first time he took her to bed? The thought of her trembling from fear rather than desire left a bitter taste in his mouth. Patrick adored her, with everything he had, and he would not have her fear him, but how could she feel otherwise, when she had not ever allowed a man to know her so intimately?

Lack of experience was certainly not an issue for Patrick himself, but therein lay the source of the guilt that swirled in and through him. She was a bright and beautiful girl who had chosen her own path in life, and Patrick had pulled her away from that life, pulled her away from the faith that had sustained her for so long for the sake of his own selfish heart. And he had done this thing, invited her into his home, into his bed, less than two years after Marianne had died.

Oh, my love, he thought as his mind drifted toward Marianne, and his first marriage, the marriage he had thought would be his only, until Shelagh burst into his life. I wish that I could speak to you, if only for a moment. I wish that I could hear you say you don't hate me for what I'm about to do. What I've done already.

He'd told Shelagh once that he rather thought Marianne would have liked her, and that was true enough. Marianne would have found her delightful, a curiosity to be exclaimed over; she would have tried so hard to make Shelagh laugh, would have jumped at the chance to take her shopping for new clothes now that Shelagh was no longer a nun. The pair might have been friends, if they'd been given the chance; no doubt Marianne's somewhat lackadaisical approach to life would have rubbed up against Shelagh's more strictly organized nature at times, but there was balance in such a difference of personalities. They might have been friends, but would Marianne have approved of Patrick taking such a woman as his wife? Would she have approved of anyone at all, or preferred he remain faithful to her memory forever? Was it too soon? How long should he have waited, between the death of one wife and the making of a new one? There was no road map for this, no one to guide him. Though he was friendly enough with his neighbors he did not count any of them as confidants, and he could not come to any of them with the questions that had been laid before his feet. He was left only in this purgatory of nerves, twisting this way and that. He wanted Shelagh, and he held hope for their future, but was his certainty born of true understanding, or only his desperate desire to have that which he had craved for so long?

I'll find no answers like this, he told himself firmly. The best thing for him now would be to sleep; it was a Wednesday, and he had the surgery in the morning and rounds in the afternoon. They had decided between themselves that Shelagh would come to the surgery first thing in the morning, ostensibly so they could discuss her position as his receptionist but in truth because they did not want to be away from one another for very long. Things will look better in the morning, he told himself, once I've had a chance to speak to her again. This worry will keep for another night.

It was very strange, being back in her little room at Nonnatus House. The air was still and quiet - and smelled faintly of mold - and no one stirred in that place. Not so very much time had passed since this room had been her home, since she had felt comfortable and at peace here, but it seemed terribly strange to her now, and sleep would not come. The room was cold and bare and lifeless, somehow, a room designed to house a Sister, and not a woman who pursued her own goals independent of the Order. She had tried to kneel at her bedside, tried to whisper a prayer, but the words had vanished from her mind, her thoughts too distracted to form even a single line of praise or entreaty. All she could think of, all she could see when she closed her eyes, was the sorrowful expression on Sister Julienne's face as she'd turned to leave.

It wasn't fair, Shelagh thought, that a day which had begun with such happiness could have ended in misery. She wanted to be glad, wanted to be delighted and full of hope, and she had been when she was alone with Trixie. She had felt, in those few precious moments, as if she were just any other girl, talking excitedly with a friend about her new engagement. It was such a lovely, normal sort of feeling, and she had luxuriated in it, but then Sister Julienne had appeared, and reminded her without words that she wasn't just any other girl. She was past thirty years old now, and a...what was the word, she wondered, for a woman who had been a nun and now was no longer? There had been others before her, she was hardly the first. The Order had an entire procedure set out for the renunciation of vows. There was at least one other who had been a postulant with her and later chose to step away, but Shelagh did not know what had become of Sister Abigail. It was as if the woman had vanished, all ties between them severed, never to be mended. That was not the sort of ending Shelagh wanted for her relationships with her Sisters; she would still see them often, of that she was certain, passing in the streets or in the maternity home, and she wanted their acquaintance to remain warm, and friendly, and full of love. But how could she show that love, when she had so blatantly chosen to betray them?

She wanted to believe that it was worth it, the way she had traded one family for another. When things settled, when her mind was less chaotic, she was certain she could still pray, and attend church each week, could maintain a quiet devotion to the God she still believed in, the God she believed had placed Patrick in her path for just this purpose. Surely God would not love her any less, for having made this choice. But what about her Sisters? Would they love her still, as they always had done? What would become of her, without them? Would Patrick's love be enough to fill the void they left behind?

She wanted to believe that it would. She wanted to believe that she was simply doing as so many others had done before her since time immemorial, walking away from her mother's house and to her husband's with her head held high. That he should become her confidant, that their family should be her new love, seemed a natural thing. But does it always hurt so much? She wondered. Do other women feel the same, when they leave their families behind? Or must every happiness be purchased with some degree of grief?

There was no way to know, and no one for her to ask. Well, Chummy, perhaps. Chummy had left behind Nonnatus House - though she had returned, now, however briefly - for the sake of her husband, and was now expecting a baby any day. Maybe I should go to her, and ask, Shelagh thought. Chummy and Peter were after all just down the hall, sleeping peacefully as all the rest of Nonnatus was. Maybe, come the morning, she might find time to ask Chummy for a chat. Oh, but Chummy was still working, and Shelagh had arranged to meet Patrick in the surgery after breakfast; in the afternoon, perhaps, she thought, or I could come by before dinner.

Perhaps it would do her good, she thought, to discuss such matters with a friend. Though Chummy had never been a nun she had been rather inexperienced in the realm of romance before she'd met Peter, and perhaps there might be some advice she could give on the matter that would soothe Shelagh's heart.

And as for the rest, she thought, we shall have to face each challenge as it comes.