Shelagh awoke to darkness and complete quiet, which was strange – so strange that she bolted upright in bed, forgetting for a moment where she was and what had happened. Then she remembered Angela, the afternoon chaos and Sister Julienne, and relaxed back into the pillows. All was well.

After allowing herself another five minutes of drowsy peace, she fumbled for her glasses and glanced at the clock. She'd slept nearly three hours, but the Sister had been right – she'd needed it. Shelagh felt much more refreshed and less despairing now, though a little guilty she'd kept Sister Julienne so long. She should get up, relieve the Sister and thank her profusely for her help.

She stood and stretched languidly, smoothed her hair and dress and padded downstairs.

As she reached the landing the sharp tangy aroma of fish and chips soaked in vinegar hit her, and her stomach growled. Suddenly she felt ravenous and remembered she hadn't really had a meal since breakfast. She followed the scent toward the kitchen, but stopped when she reached the sitting room.

Patrick stood in the middle of the dimly lit room, his back toward her, tail of the pink knit blanket swaying slightly as he rocked Angela. Shelagh smiled. She'd seen this scene, or variations of it, several times since she'd known Patrick. It was his proud smile at his son's violin recital and the way he'd teased him as they practiced for the three-legged race. It was the look of wonder on his face the moment Timothy had walked on his own again, and the complete adoration in his eyes the day they brought Angela home. He was a wonderful father. It was one of the first things she'd found attractive about him, before she'd even been willing to admit there was an attraction, and the more she saw him with their children, the deeper she fell in love with him.

He turned slightly on the carpet and spotted her. "Oh, good," he said, just above a whisper. "You're awake."

Shelagh reached for the baby, but he shook his head. "Just got her to sleep. Are you hungry? There's a plate of fish and chips in the oven."

"Starving actually."

"Sit, eat. Let me just put her down, check on Tim, and then I'll join you."

Walking slowly, carefully, he set Angela in the Moses basket near the sofa. Shelagh caught a glimpse of their daughter's face on his shoulder – sleeping like a little angel, no sign of whatever complaints or fears had caused her earlier tantrum. Perhaps she had just been tired.

She moved to the kitchen, put on the kettle for tea and took her plate out of the oven. The sink was completely empty of bottles, the counter spotless and all the dishes neatly stacked in their places in the cupboards. Even the floor looked cleaner and she suspected it had been mopped. She'd definitely have to find a proper way to thank Sister Julienne later. A cake, perhaps – the elder nun had a secret fondness for gingerbread, if she remembered correctly – and a long visit with Angela on one of her sunnier days.

Patrick came back downstairs just as she was tucking in to her dinner. "Both little Turners asleep. Well, Angela's asleep – finally – but Tim –"

"Asked for just five more minutes?" Shelagh said with a grin. "Let him stay up a while longer. I'm sure he did his share of scrubbing and bottle-washing today. He deserves a reward."

Patrick hadn't quite known what to think when he'd come home to find his son, wearing Shelagh's flowered apron over his jumper, up to his elbows in a sink of dirty dishes. Even more peculiar to find Sister Julienne on his sitting room sofa, rocking a very fussy Angela, and Shelagh nowhere in sight. He'd almost walked out of the house and walked back in again to make sure he wasn't having some weird dream.

Of course, once Sister Julienne had explained what had happened – she'd come by for a visit and offered to help out a bit while Shelagh took a nap – Patrick had pitched in with the clean-up, moving all of his books and papers out of their precarious stacks around the sitting room and putting them back in his study and then helping Tim take his toys and books back to his room.

"Thank you, too," Shelagh said. "It's been a while since I've seen the kitchen and sitting room this clean."

"Well, Sister Julienne helped out quite a bit," he said as he stirred his tea. "And Nurse Mount."

Shelagh dropped her fork. "Nurse Mount was here?" Shelagh knew of the nurse's penchant for cleanliness and utmost organization; it was one of the reasons she'd hired her the week she'd helped run Nonnatus House. What must she have thought walking into such a chaotic mess?

Patrick chuckled. "She came by, looking for Sister Julienne to ask her about a patient, saw the mess and couldn't resist, I suppose. She practically chased Tim and I out of the house, and by the time we came back with dinner, she'd cleaned the entire downstairs. I think she would have tackled the bedrooms next if Sister Julienne hadn't stopped her." Seeing his wife's horrified expression, Patrick squeezed her hand. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I think she rather enjoyed it."

Shelagh sighed. "But the nurses work so hard already and get so little time off. I hadn't meant for her – or Sister Julienne – to spend their Sunday cleaning our house and caring for Angela while I slept. I'm sorry I let everything get away from me. It won't happen it again." She looked towards the Moses basket. "How did you finally get her to stop crying?"

"Sister Julienne figured it out. I mentioned Angela seemed fine on the way home from church and she suggested we take her for a drive. Sent her right off." Seeing Shelagh's frown, he asked, "What is it? Tim was careful with her in the car, and it was only around the block a few times."

"It's not that." She took a deep breath to stave off tears. "I don't always know what to do when she cries. I don't know what she wants or how to make her happy. What if she's not adjusting? What if I'm doing something wrong? Her mother would know what was wrong."

Her anxious talk worried Patrick and he gripped her hand tighter. "Her mother? Shelagh, you are her mother. And you are the most patient, loving mother she – and Timothy – could ask for. Babies fuss, and all parents have bad days when they're tired. Some parents have bad weeks." He sighed, remembering the long, cold months after his first wife's death. "After Margaret died, I didn't know how to do anything – not only the cooking and cleaning, I was always rubbish at that. But suddenly being the only parent – I didn't know how to do that. I couldn't even talk with Tim about her death. I was so worried, all the time, about doing the wrong thing and screwing up his entire life."

He laughed drily. "It took me a long time – and some advice from a very wise and beautiful woman – before I figured out the best thing I could do was be there and love him; the rest would sort itself out."

Shelagh gave him a tentative smile. "At the convent, I did so much – nursing, teaching the other midwives, clinics, prayer. Now all I have to do is keep a tidy house and look after Angela and Tim, and some days I feel I can't even do that right."

"You do more than enough." Patrick paused for a moment, thinking. "I think I know what you need." He pulled her to her feet and led her to the sofa. When he bent over the Moses basket, she put her hand on his arm to still him.

"Don't, you'll wake her."

He shook his head. "I'll be gentle. She won't even notice." He carefully lifted the sleeping infant from her bed and placed her in Shelagh's arms. Angela squirmed slightly at first and both parents held their breath, waiting for her cry. But she merely turned her head and snuggled deeper into her mother's arms, drowsing contentedly. Shelagh felt the tension in her shoulders and neck ease.

Patrick settled on the sofa beside her, resting an arm along the small of her back. "See? You just needed a cuddle."

They sat in near silence, listening to the baby's soft snores. Cocooned as she was, daughter on her lap, husband at her side, Shelagh felt warm and surrounded by love. In such circumstances, it was impossible to be pessimistic, even after such a day. Tomorrow would be better.

"She is perfect, isn't she?" she whispered.

Patrick pressed a kiss Shelagh's temple, his reply muffled by her hair. "She is. Just like her mother."