10 July 1958
I shall have to buy her a ring, Patrick mused to himself while he shaved, half-dressed and half-asleep in the wan light of an early Thursday morning. He had woken with his head full of questions, the thousand tiny details that would need to be sorted through before he and Shelagh could wed roaring through his mind. The most immediate concerns - her living arrangements and ability to sustain herself during their engagement - had been neatly taken care of, and now his thoughts turned to other, messier problems. Chief among them being that he had not technically proposed. Oh, he had offered to do so, had told Shelagh in his letters that he wanted her to be his wife, but he had not technically asked, and his own somewhat limited experience had taught him that most women liked to observe the niceties. She deserved that, he thought, a proper proposal she could tell all her friends about - what few of them there were - and a ring that she could wear proudly, a ring that would announce to anyone who crossed her path that she was loved, and spoken for.
Oh, she would not want something ostentatious, he knew. They had agreed among themselves that she would come work at the surgery with him, and her hands were never idle. The ring he chose would need to be sturdy, something she could wear while she worked, something she would not have to fuss over. But he did not want it to be too small, too understated, for as far as he knew she had no jewelry at all, and he rather thought she deserved to have something beautiful, just for herself. It would take a very particular sort of ring, he thought, to satisfy all of the necessary requirements, but he did not want to debate the issue overlong; he wanted to propose to her as soon as he was able, that very day if he could only find the time to duck into a shop.
The morning was wearing quickly on, however; the moment his shave was done he was out of the bathroom, shrugging into the last of his clothes and shouting for Tim. They wolfed down a bite of toast together, and then came the usual scramble as he searched for his hat and his bag and Tim shuffled about underfoot, full of questions about Auntie Shelagh and the wedding.
"I'll ask her to dinner tonight," Patrick told him finally in a fit of desperation, already running five minutes behind schedule. "And you can ask her all these questions yourself."
That seemed to satisfy the boy, and at last Patrick was able to race out of the flat. One of the perks of living above the surgery was that he did not have to worry about a morning commute, but still somehow he never managed to make it downstairs on time. He shuddered to think how tardy he might be if he lived elsewhere in Poplar.
The sun was shining brightly, but Patrick paid it no mind. Shelagh was supposed to meet him in the surgery before office hours began, and he was desperate to see her. To see her shy smile, to see the way the light glinted off her honey-gold hair, to hold her hand, to touch her, to know for a fact that everything before this morning was real, no a dream conjured by a lovesick heart It was Shelagh he needed now; the rest could wait.
He had no sooner descended the stairs and made for the front door of the surgery than he saw her, his beautiful love, standing small and still on the pavement, waiting for him. She wore a pale pink dress that did not seem to suit her at all; oh, it fit her beautifully, emphasized the neat tuck of her waist, the skirt swirling prettily from her hips, but the color was so distinctly feminine, so obviously demanding of attention in a way that seemed most incongruous, given Shelagh's own more humble nature. The dress was made for summer, the sleeves stopping just above her elbows and showing off the pale soft skin of her forearms. Its neckline was by no means inappropriate, but Patrick had fallen in love with her without ever seeing her collarbones, and the expanse of skin revealed above that pale pink dress was so lovely and so unexpected it almost knocked the wind from him. On her feet she wore a pair of simple nude pumps, and her hair had been caught at the nape of her neck with a small brown clip, and she looked...beautiful, and young, and far too wonderful to be wasting her time on the likes of him. I'm a lucky sod, he thought.
"Shelagh," Patrick breathed as he approached, confused and delighted. He had given little thought to the matter of her clothes; he would not have minded in the least if she had appeared wearing the same brown suit she'd worn the day before. It was not her clothes that he had fallen in love with, and she had no need of fine garments to win his heart, for he had delivered it into her hands long ago, and had no intention of taking it back. It was Shelagh he loved, her blue eyes and her clever wit, her fierce intelligence, her tender heart, Shelagh who was practical and kind and had saved him from himself. Why then, he wondered, had she felt the need to do this thing? Did she think he expected it of her? Somehow he did not think the dress was her own; she had joined the order just after the war, and the cut of this dress was far too modern, far too fashionable, for her to have kept it all this while. But likewise she had not had time to go out and purchase anything not new, not when he'd delivered her to Nonnatus House well after dark the night before, and it was still too early for the shops to have opened. There was a kind of magic in it, he thought, in the way she had found the means to surprise him, in the beauty of her tentative smile in the summer sunlight.
"Good morning, Patrick," she answered. She'd caught her fingertips in the full skirt of her pink dress, and was worrying the fabric between them, looking somehow, adorably uncertain, as if she did not quite know what to do with herself, dressed that way.
"This is unexpected," he told her as he came to a stop just in front of her. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into his arms, to press his nose against her hair and hold her tight, but they were standing together on the pavement, and all around them Poplar was alive with the noise of their neighbors rushing too and fro, and it was too great a risk to take to indulge himself just now, given that she had asked him to help her protect both their reputations. And he was not certain, not really, if she would come to him if he asked, if she was ready to submit to such easy affections or if the courage that had propelled her into his arms the day before had deserted her entirely, and this moment was too precious, he thought, for him to shatter it with his own eagerness.
"You did say to meet you after breakfast," she answered then, her brow furrowing as if in worry, as if she thought perhaps she'd misunderstood him, or he'd forgotten their plans already. Oh, how he loved the sound of her voice; never before had a Scottish lilt sounded as beautiful as it did falling from her lips. Every word she spoke was its own kind of music, and he listened with rapt attention, in awe and in love.
"No, I meant the dress," he said, smiling, gesturing vaguely towards her lovely ensemble.
Shelagh blushed and cast her eyes down to her toes, and to his dismay Patrick saw that her smile had fled.
"It's Trixie's dress," she told him softly, sounding somehow disappointed now. "She thought perhaps I ought to have something nice to wear, if I'm to be your receptionist. I told her there was no need but she was so excited, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings."
"Oh, Shelagh," Patrick sighed, cursing himself for having given her cause to doubt how much he appreciated her efforts. It must have taken a great deal of courage for her to dress in such an unfamiliar way, when she was still so new to the world beyond the doors of the convent. Had she been full of hope, hope that he would be pleased with her, that she would make an impact on him, and had he dashed all those hopes already? In truth he had been so enthralled by the beauty of her that he had quite forgotten the surgery, or the keys that dangled from his fingertips, and only managed to stand still and stunned and basking in the radiance of her. Now he felt she ought to know that, that it would fall to him to restore her fragile hopes. Though he had only moments before resolved himself to abstain from any sort of intimacy in public he felt now that his misstep ought to be righted at once, and he did not want to leave her in doubt or distress a single second longer. And so, though perhaps it might have been a very foolish thing to do, he reached out and caught hold of her hand. Her eyes flashed up to his face at once, and the moment that brilliant blue gaze settled upon him he smiled.
"The dress is beautiful," he told her. "You are beautiful."
And then he lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed her palm once, gently, just as he had done in the parish kitchen what seemed like a lifetime ago. He made that choice deliberately, wanting to remind her just how very much he loved her, how very much he wanted her, and as he looked into her eyes he saw that she understood every word he had not said, wrapped up in that one tender kiss.
"You don't need dresses and jewels to make you lovely," he continued in a low voice. "But it certainly doesn't hurt."
"Oh, Patrick," she laughed as the smile returned to her face, and he rejoiced to see it.
For a moment they stood together, her hand in his, lost in each other's eyes, relief and love and joy winding in and around and through them until everything else in all the world was forgotten, save the pair of them. But only for a moment, for in the next breath the chorus of calling voices and slamming doors that was early morning in Poplar roared back into life, and the spell was broken.
"Come on, then," he said, still holding her hand. "Let's get you inside."
They walked into the surgery together, hand-in-hand, Patrick grinning like a fool. As far as he was concerned he had the prettiest girl in Poplar on his arm, and he could not have been happier. There were others who were younger, more adept with makeup and curlers, bolder perhaps - though he knew from experience that she could be bolder than all of them put together, brave as a soldier when the need arose - but none of them held a candle to her, his Shelagh, not to him.
"What is it you want me to do?" she asked him as they stood together in the foyer of the surgery. They had perhaps half an hour before the first patient of the day was set to arrive, and ordinarily Patrick would have gone to check in at the maternity home on the west wing of the building before starting the kettle and bracing himself for what was to come. Perhaps Shelagh could start the kettle, as he went on his way, could spend a few moments familiarizing herself with his diary and his records before the work really began, or perhaps she could join him as he wandered through the maternity home - though perhaps not, given that this was her first day in Poplar without her habit, and the ladies did so love to gossip. That's what she was asking him, asking him for direction, some guidance in her newfound occupation, but the question had given him an idea, and he chose to act on it at once.
"I want you to stand very still," he told her, and then he moved, slowly, wrapped his arms around her waist, gathered his hands at the small of her back and pulled her in close to him. The softest sort of gasp escaped her, but she was still smiling, looking up at him with eyes bright and full of love, and so he did not hesitate, not for a moment, simply bowed his head, and brushed his lips against hers, once, softly.
"Good morning, Shelagh," he said, finally greeting her the way he wished he'd been able to when he first saw her standing on the pavement.
"Good morning, Patrick," she answered, a bit breathlessly. And then, to his surprise and his delight, she lifted herself up onto her toes, and kissed him once more.
"Now then," she said, blushing as she settled back on her feet. "Where shall we start?"